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THE 


POETICAL  AND  PROSE  WRITINGS 


CHARLES     SPRAGUE. 


NEW   AND   REVISED   EDITION. 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR,   REED,  AND    FIELDS, 

M  DCCC  L. 


* 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1849,  by 

CHARLES    SPRAGUE, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CONTENTS. 


POETRY. 

PA  OB 

CURIOSITY ,            .  1 

SHAKSPEARE    ODE     ........  35 

CENTENNIAL    ODE  ••••..  .47 

TRIENNIAL    ODE 70 

ART  .                   •      ;      .      •      .      .      .  72 

FIFTY    YEARS    AGO 74 

ODE FOURTH   OF   JULY,    1827             .  76 

SONG FANEUIL    HALL    FESTIVAL               .  78 

SONG LAFAYETTE    DINNER        .             .  80 

ODE WASHINGTON    LIGHT    INFANTRY    .  82 

PRIZE    PROLOGUE PARK    THEATRE,  1521       .            .  84 

PRIZE    PROLOGUE PHILADELPHIA    THEATRE,    1822     .  87 

PRIZE    ADDRESS SALEM    THEATRE,   1S23     .            .  92 

PRIZE    ADDRESS PHILADELPHIA    THEATRE,    1828     .  95 

PRIZE    ADDRESS PORTSMOUTH    THEATRE,   1S30  .  98 


ivil64438 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAflK 

DEDICATION  HYMN 101 

ORDINATION  HYMN      .        •      •  •    _  •        .        .  10H 

INSTALLATION  HYMN  ....,,.      105 

CHILDREN'S  HYMN 107 

THE  FAMILY  MEETING        .        ,        .        .        .        .10* 

LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  M.  S.  C.        ',        *        .        .111 
LOOK  ON  THIS  PICTURE      .        .       .        .        .        .114 

I  SEE  THEE  STILL.         .         .         .         .         .         »         .117 

THE  TOMB  OF  EMMELINE    .        ,        .        .        .        .      120 

THE  FUNERAL         ...•»...   123 
CHARLES  JAMES  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .125 

DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT     .......  128 

LINES  TO  A  YOUNG  MOTHER 129 

EDWIN  BUCKINGHAM       .        .        .        .        .        .        .130 

MOUNT  AUBURN .      132 

THE  BROTHERS  ...».••.  134 
THE  WINGED  WORSHIPPERS  .  .  .  .  .136 
TO  MY  CIGAR  ....*...  138 
TO  MONTAGUE 141 

PROSE    WRITINGS. 

AMERICAN    INDEPENDENCE AN    ORATION,    1825  .    147 

ON    INTEMPERANCE AN   ADDRESS,    1827      .         176 


POEMS. 


CURIOSITY. 


DELIVERED  BEFORE   THE  PHI  BETA  KAPPA  SOCIETY 
OF  HARVARD  UNIVERSITY.    1829. 


CURIOSITY. 


IT  came  from  Heaven  —  its  power  archangels  knew, 
When  this  fair  globe  first  rounded  to  their  view ; 
When  the  young  sun  revealed  each  glorious  scene 
Where  oceans  gathered  and  where  lands  grew  green ; 
When  earth's  dead  dust  in  joyful  myriads  swarmed. 
And  the  first  man  with  God's  own  breath  was  warmed 
It  reigned  in  Eden  —  when  that  man  first  woke, 
Its  kindling  influence  from  his  eye-balls  spoke ; 
No  roving  childhood,  no  exploring  youth, 
Lured  him  along,  till  wonder  chilled  to  truth ; 
Full-formed  at  once,  his  subject  world  he  trod, 
And  gazed  upon  the  labors  of  his  God  ; 
On  all,  by  turns,  his  chartered  glance  was  cast, 
While  each  pleased  best  as  each  appeared  the  last; 
But  when  She  came,  in  nature's  blameless  pride, 
Bone  of  his  bone,  his  heaven-anointed  bride, 
All  meaner  objects  faded  from  his  sight, 
And  sense  turned  giddy  with  the  new  delight ; 
Those  charmed  his  eye,  but  this  entranced  his  soul, 
Another  self,  queen-wonder  of  the  whole  ! 


2  CURIOSITY. 

Rapt  at  the  view,  in  ecstacy  he  stood, 
And,  like  his  Maker,  saw  that  all  was  good. 

It  reigned  in  Eden  —  in  that  heavy  hour 
When  the  arch-tempter  sought  our  mother's  bower, 
Its  thrilling  charm  her  yielding  heart  assailed, 
And  even  o'er  dread  Jehovah's  word  prevailed. 
There  the  fair  tree  in  fatal  beauty  grew, 
And  hung  its  mystic  apples  to  her  view ; 
"  Eat,"  breathed  the  fiend,  beneath  his  serpent  guise ; 
"  Ye  shall  know  all  things,  gather,  and  be  wise  !  " 
Sweet  on  her  ear  the  wily  falsehood  stole, 
And  roused  the  ruling  passion  of  her  soul. 
"  Ye  shall  become  like  God,"  —  transcendent  fate  ! 
That  God's  command  forgot,  she  plucked  and  ate ; 
Ate,  and  her  partner  wooed  to  share  the  crime, 
Whose  doom,  the  legend  saith,  must  live  through  time. 
For  this  they  shrank  before  the  Avenger's  face, 
For  this  He  drove  them  from  the  sacred  place ; 
For  this  came  down  the  universal  lot, 
To  weep,  to  wander,  die,  and  be  forgot. 

It  came  from  Heaven  —  it  reigned  in  Eden's  shades  — 
It  roves  on  earth  —  and  every  walk  invades  : 
Childhood  and  age  alike  its  influence  own, 
It  haunts  the  beggar's  nook,  the  monarch's  throne ; 


CURIOSITY.  3 

Hangs  o'er  the  cradle,  leans  above  the  bier, 
Gazed  on  old  Babel's  tower  —  and  lingers  here. 

To  all  that 's  lofty,  all  that 's  low,  it  turns, 
With  terror  curdles  and  with  rapture  burns ; 
Now  feels  a  seraph's  throb,  now,  less  than  man's, 
A  reptile  tortures  and  a  planet  scans  ; 
Now  idly  joins  in  life's  poor,  passing  jars, 
Now  shakes  creation  off,  and  soars  beyond  the  stars. 

'T  is  CURIOSITY  —  who  hath  not  felt 
Its  spirit,  and  before  its  altar  knelt  ? 
In  the  pleased  infant  see  its  power  expand, 
When  first  the  coral  fills  his  little  hand ; 
Throned  in  his  mother's  lap,  it  dries  each  tear, 
As  the  quaint  ballad  falls  upon  his  ear ; 
Next  it  assails  him  in  his  top's  strange  hum, 
Breathes  in  his  whistle,  echoes  in  his  drum ; 
Each  gilded  toy,  that  doting  love  bestows, 
He  longs  to  break  and  every  spring  expose. 
Placed  by  your  hearth,  with  what  delight  he  pores 
O'er  the  bright  pages  of  his  pictured  stores ! 
How  oft  he  steals  upon  your  graver  task, 
Of  this  to  tell  you  and  of  that  to  ask  ! 
And,  when  the  waning  hour  to-bedward  bids, 
Though  gentle  sleep  sit  waiting  on  his  lids, 


4  CURIOSITY. 

How  winningly  he  pleads  to  gain  you  o'er, 
That  he  may  read  one  little  storv  more. 

Nor  yet  alone  to  toys  and  tales  confined, 
It  sits,  dark  brooding,  o'er  his  embryo  mind : 
Take  him  between  your  knees,  peruse  his  face, 
While  all  you  know,  or  think  you  know,  you  trace; 
Tell  him  who  spoke  creation  into  birth, 
Arched  the  broad  heavens,  and  spread  the  rolling  earth; 
Who  formed  a  pathway  for  the  obedient  sun, 
And  bade  the  seasons  in  their  circles  run ; 
Who  filled  the  air,  the  forest,  and  the  flood, 
And  gave  man  all,  for  comfort,  or  for  food ; 
Tell  him  they  sprang  at  God's  creating  nod  — 
He  stops  you  short  with,  "  Father,  who  made  God  ? " 

Thus  through  life's  stages  may  we  mark  the  power 
That  masters  man  in  every  changing  hour. 
It  tempts  him  from  the  blandishments  of  home. 
Mountains  to  climb  and  frozen  seas  to  roam ; 
By  air-blown  bubbles  buoyed,  it  bids  him  rise, 
And  hang,  an  atom,  in  the  vaulted  skies; 
Lured  by  its  charm,  he  sits  and  learns  to  trace 
The  midnight  wanderings  of  the  orbs  of  space ; 
Boldly  he  knocks  at  wisdom's  inmost  gate, 
With  nature  counsels,  and  communes  with  fate ; 


CURIOSITY. 

Below,  above,  o'er  all  he  dares  to  rove, 

In  all  finds  God,  and  finds  that  God  all  love. 

Turn  to  the  world  —  its  curious  dwellers  view, 
Like  Paul's  Athenians,  seeking  something  new. 
Be  it  a  bonfire's  or  a  city's  blaze, 
The  gibbet's  victim,  or  the  nation's  gaze, 
A  female  atheist,  or  a  learned  dog, 
Siam's  twin  boys,  or  Brighton's  mammoth  hog, 
A  murder,  or  a  muster,  't  is  the  same, 
Life's  follies,  glories,  griefs,  all  feed  the  flame. 
Hark,  where  the  martial  trumpet  fills  the  air, 
How  the  roused  multitude  come  round  to  stare ; 
Sport  drops  his  ball,  Toil  throws  his  hammer  by, 
Thrift  breaks  a  bargain  off,  to  please  his  eye ; 
Up  fly  the  windows, — even  fair  mistress  cook, 
Though  dinner  burn,  must  run  to  take  a  look. 
In  the  thronged  court  the  ruling  passion  read, 
Where  Story  dooms,  where  Wirt  and  Webster  plead ; 
Yet  kindred  minds  alone  their  flights  shall  trace, 
The  herd  press  on  to  see  a  cut-throat's  face. 
Around  the  gallows'  foot  behold  them  draw, 
When  the  lost  villain  answers  to  the  law ; 
Soft  souls,  how  anxious  on  his  pangs  to  gloat, 
When  the  vile  cord  shall  tighten  round  his  throat ! 


6  CURIOSITY. 

And  ah  !  each  hard-bought  stand  to  quit  how  grieved, 

As  the  sad  rumor  runs  —  "  The  man  's  reprieved !  " 

See  to  the  church  the  pious  myriads  pour, 

Squeeze  through  the  aisles  and  jostle  round  the  door ; 

Does  Langdon  preach  ?  —  (I  veil  his  quiet  name, 

Who  serves  his  God  and  cannot  stoop  to  fame ;)  — 

No,  't  is  some  reverend  mime,  the  latest  rage, 

Who  thumps  the  desk,  that  should  have  trod  the  stage ; 

Cant's  veriest  ranter  crams  a  house  if  new, 

When  Paul  himself,  oft  heard,  would  hardly  fill  a  pew. 

Lo,  where  the  Stage,  the  poor,  degraded  Stage, 
Holds  its  warped  mirror  to  a  gaping  age  ! 
There,  where,  to  raise  the  drama's  moral  tone, 
Fool  Harlequin  usurps  Apollo's  throne ; 
There,  where  grown  children  gather  round,  to  praise 
The  new- vamped  fables  of  their  nursery  days  j 
Where  one  loose  scene  shall  turn  more  souls  to  shame 
Than  ten  of  Channing's  lectures  can  reclaim ; 
There,  where  in  idiot  rapture  we  adore 
The  herded  vagabonds  of  every  shore  ; 
Women  unsexed,  who,  lost  to  woman's  pride, 
Feign  the  sot's  stagger  and  the  bully's  stride  ; 
Pert  lisping  girls,  who,  still  in  childhood's  fetters, 
Babble  of  love,  yet  barely  know  their  letters ; 


CURIOSITY. 

Neat-jointed  mummers,  mocking  nature's  shape, 
To  prove  how  nearly  man  can  match  an  ape ; 
Vaulters,  who,  rightly  served  at  home,  perchance 
Had  dangled  from  the  rope  on  which  they  dance ; 
Dwarfs,  mimics,  jugglers,  all  that  yield  content, 
Where  Sin  holds  carnival  and  Wit  keeps  lent ; 
There,  when  in  shoals  the  modest  million  rush, 
One  sex  to  laugh,  and  one  to  try  to  blush, 
When  mincing  Ravenot  sports  tight  pantalettes, 
And  turns  fops'  heads  while  turning  pirouettes ; 
There,  at  each  ribald  sally,  where  we  hear 
The  knowing  giggle  and  the  scurrile  jeer, 
While  from  the  intellectual  gallery  first 
Rolls  the  base  plaudit,  loudest  at  the  worst. 

Gods !  who  can  grace  yon  desecrated  dome, 
When  he  may  turn  his  Shakspeare  o'er  at  home  ? 
Who  there  can  group  the  pure  ones  of  his  race, 
To  see  and  hear  what  bids  him  veil  his  face  ? 
Ask  ye  who  can  ?  why  I,  and  you,  and  you ; 
No  matter  what  the  nonsense,  if  't  is  new. 
To  Doctor  Logic's  wit  our  sons  give  ear ; 
They  have  no  time  for  Hamlet,  or  for  Lear ; 
Our  daughters  turn  from  gentle  Juliet's  woe, 
To  count  the  twirls  of  Almaviva's  toe. 

2 


8  CURIOSITY. 

Not  theirs  the  blame  who  furnish  forth  the  treat, 
But  ours,  who  throng  the  board  and  grossly  eat : 
We  laud,  indeed,  the  virtue-kindling  Stage, 
And  prate  of  Shakspeare  and  his  deathless  page ; 
But  go,  announce  his  best ;  on  Cooper  call, 
Cooper,  "  the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all ;" 
Where  are  the  crowds  so  wont  to  choke  the  door  ? 
'T  is  an  old  thing,  they  've  seen  it  all  before. 

Pray  Heaven,  if  yet  indeed  the  Stage  must  stand, 
With  guiltless  mirth  it  may  delight  the  land ; 
Far  better  else  each  scenic  temple  fall, 
And  one  approving  silence  curtain  all. 
Despots  to  shame  may  yield  their  rising  youth, 
But  freedom  dwells  with  purity  and  truth ; 
Then  make  the  effort,  ye  who  rule  the  Stage,  — 
With  novel  decency  surprise  the  age  ; 
Even  wit,  so  long  forgot,  may  play  its  part, 
And  nature  yet  have  power  to  melt  the  heart ; 
Perchance  the  listeners,  to  their  instinct  true, 
May  fancy  common  sense  —  as  something  new. 

Turn  to  the  Press  —  its  teeming  sheets  survey, 
Big  with  the  wonders  of  each  passing  day  ; 
Births,  deaths  and  weddings,  forgeries,  fires  and  wrecks, 
Harangues  and  hail-storms,  brawls  and  broken  necks ; 


CURIOSITY.  9 

Where  half-fledged  bards  on  feeble  pinions  seek 

An  immortality  of  near  a  week ; 

Where  cruel  eulogists  the  dead  restore, 

In  maudlin  praise  to  martyr  them  once  more ; 

Where  ruffian  slanderers  wreak  their  coward  spite, 

And  need  no  venomed  dagger  while  they  write : 

There,  (with  a  quill,  so  noisy  and  so  vain, 

We  almost  hear  the  goose  it  clothed  complain,) 

Where  each  hack  scribe,  as  hate  or  interest  burns, 

Toad  or  toad-eater,  stains  the  page  by  turns ; 

Enacts  virtu,  usurps  the  critic's  chair, 

Lauds  a  mock  Guido,  or  a  mouthing  player ; 

Viceroys  it  o'er  the  realms  of  prose  and  rhyme, 

Now  puffs  pert  "  Pelham,"  now  "  The  Course  of  Time ;" 

And,  though  ere  Christmas  both  may  be  forgot, 

Vows  this  beats  Milton,  and  that  Walter  Scott : 

With  Samson's  vigor  feels  his  nerves  expand, 

To  overthrow  the  nobles  of  the  land ; 

Soils  the  green  garlands  that  for  Otis  bloom, 

And  plants  a  brier  even  on  Cabot's  tomb ; 

As  turn  the  party  coppers,  heads  or  tails, 

And  now  this  faction  and  now  that  prevails, 

Applauds  to-day  what  yesterday  he  cursed, 

Lampoons  the  wisest  and  extols  the  worst ; 

While  hard  to  tell,  so  coarse  a  daub  he  lays, 

Which  sullies  most,  the  slander  or  the  praise. 


10  CURIOSITY. 

Yet,  sweet  or  bitter,  hence  what  fountains  burst, 
While  still  the  more  we  drink  the  more  we  thirst : 
Trade  hardly  deems  the  busy  day  begun, 
Till  his  keen  eye  along  the  page  has  run ; 
The  blooming  daughter  throws  her  needle  by, 
And  reads  her  schoolmate's  marriage  with  a  sigh  ; 
While  the  grave  mother  puts  her  glasses  on, 
And  gives  a  tear  to  some  old  crony  gone  ; 
The  preacher,  too,  his  Sunday  theme  lays  down, 
To  know  what  last  new  folly  fills  the  town : 
Lively  or  sad,  life's  meanest,  mightiest  things, 
The  fate  of  fighting  cocks,  or  fighting  kings  ; 
Nought  comes  amiss,  we  take  the  nauseous  stuff, 
Verjuice  or  oil,  a  libel  or  a  puff. 

'T  is  this  sustains  that  coarse,  licentious  tribe 
Of  tenth-rate  type-men,  gaping  for  a  bribe  ; 
That  reptile  race,  with  all  that 's  good  at  strife, 
Who  trail  their  slime  through  every  walk  of  life  ; 
Stain  the  white  tablet  where  a  great  man's  name 
Stands  proudly  chiseled  by  the  hand  of  fame, 
Nor  round  the  sacred  fireside  fear  to  crawl, 
But  drop  their  venom  there,  and  poison  all. 

'T  is  Curiosity  —  though,  in  its  round, 
No  one  poor  dupe  the  calumny  has  found, 


CURIOSITY.  11 

Still  shall  it  live,  and  still  new  slanders  breed ; 

What  though  we  ne'er  believe,  —  we  buy  and  read ; 

Like  Scotland's  war-cross,  thrown  from  hand  to  hand, 

To  rouse  the  angry  passions  of  the  land, 

So  the  black  falsehood  flies  from  ear  to  ear, 

While  goodness  grieves,  but,  grieving,  still  must  hear. 

All  are  not  such  ?     0  no ;  there  are.  thank  Heaven! 
A  nobler  troop  to  whom  this  trust  is  given  ; 
Who,  all  unbribed,  on  freedom's  ramparts  stand, 
Faithful  and  firm,  bright  warders  of  the  land. 
By  them  still  lifts  the  Press  its  arm  abroad, 
To  guide  all-curious  man  along  life's  road ; 
To  cheer  young  Genius,  Pity's  tear  to  start, 
In  Truth's  bold  cause  to  rouse  each  fearless  heart ; 
O'er  male  and  female  quacks  to  shake  the  rod, 
And  scourge  the  unsexed  thing  that  scorns  her  God ; 
To  hunt  corruption  from  his  secret  den, 
And  show  the  monster  up,  the  gaze  of  wondering  men. 

How  swells  my  theme !  how  vain  my  power  I  find, 
To  track  the  windings  of  the  curious  mind  ! 
Let  aught  be  hid,  though  useless,  nothing  boots, 
Straightway  it  must  be  plucked  up  by  the  roots. 
How  oft  we  lay  the  volume  down  to  ask 
Of  him,  the  victim  in  the  Iron  Mask ; 


12 


CURIOSITY. 


The  crusted  medal  rub  with  painful  care, 

To  spell  the  legend  out  —  that  is  not  there  ; 

With  dubious  gaze  o'er  moss-grown  tombstones  bend, 

To  find  a  name  —  the  herald  never  penned ; 

Dig  through  the  lava-deluged  city's  breast, 

Learn  all  we  can,  and  wisely  guess  the  rest : 

Ancient  or  modern,  sacred  or  profane, 

All  must  be  known,  and  all  obscure  made  plain ; 

If  'twas  a  pippin  tempted  Eve  to  sin, 

If  glorious  Byron  drugged  his  muse  with  gin ; 

If  Troy  e'er  stood,  if  Shakspeare  stole  a  deer, 

If  Israel's  missing  tribes  found  refuge  here  ; 

If  like  a  villain  Captain  Henry  lied, 

If  like  a  martyr  Captain  Morgan  died. 

Its  aim  oft  idle,  lovely  in  its  end, 
We  turn  to  look,  then  linger  to  befriend  ; 
The  maid  of  Egypt  thus  was  led  to  save 
A  nation's  future  leader  from  the  wave  : 
New  things  to  hear,  when  erst  the  Gentiles  ran, 
Truth  closed  what  Curiosity  began. 
How  many  a  noble  art,  now  widely  known, 
Owes  its  young  impulse  to  this  power  alone ! 
Even  in  its  slightest  working  we  may  trace 
A  deed  that  changed  the  fortunes  of  a  race ; 


CURIOSITY.  13 

Bruce,  banned  and  hunted  on  his  native  soil, 

With  curious  eye  surveyed  a  spider's  toil : 

Six  times  the  little  climber  strove  and  failed ; 

Six  times  the  chief  before  his  foes  had  quailed  ; 

"  Once  more,"  he  cried,  —  "  in  thine  my  doom  I  read,  — 

Once  more  I  dare  the  fight,  if  thou  succeed  ; " 

'T  was  done  —  the  insect's  fate  he  made  his  own, 

Once  more  the  battle  waged,  and  gained  a  throne. 

Behold  the  sick  man  in  his  easy-chair ; 
Barred  from  the  busy  crowd  and  bracing  air, 
How  every  passing  trifle  proves  its  power 
To  while  away  the  long,  dull,  lazy  hour ! 
As  down  the  pane  the  rival  rain-drops  chase, 
Curious  he  '11  watch  to  see  which  wins  the  race ; 
And  let  two  dogs  beneath  his  window  fight, 
He  '11  shut  his  Bible  to  enjoy  the  sight. 
So  with  each  new-born  nothing  rolls  the  day, 
Till  some  kind  neighbor,  stumbling  in  his  way, 
Draws  up  his  chair,  the  sufferer  to  amuse, 
And  makes  him  happy  while  he  tells  —  The  News. 

The  News !  our  morning,  noon,  and  evening  cry  ; 
Day  unto  day  repeats  it,  till  we  die. 
For  this  the  cit,  the  critic,  and  the  fop, 
Dally  the  hour  away  in  Tensor's  shop ; 


14 


CURIOSITY. 


For  this  the  gossip  takes  her  daily  route, 

And  wears  your  threshold  and  your  patience  out ; 

For  this  we  leave  the  parson  in  the  lurch, 

And  pause  to  prattle  on  the  way  to  church  ; 

Even  when  some  coffined  friend  we  gather  round, 

We  ask,  "  What  news  ?"  then  lay  him  in  the  ground  ; 

To  this  the  breakfast  owes  its  sweetest  zest, 

For  this  the  dinner  cools,  the  bed  remains  unpressed. 

What  gives  each  tale  of  scandal  to  the  street, 
The  kitchen's  wonder  and  the  parlor's  treat  ? 
See  the  pert  housemaid  to  the  key-hole  fly, 
When  husband  storms,  wife  frets,  or  lovers  sigh ; 
See  Tom  your  pockets  ransack  for  each  note, 
And  read  your  secrets  while  he  cleans  your  coat ; 
See,  —  yes,  to  listen,  see  even  Madam  deign, 
When  the  smug  sempstress  pours  her  ready  strain. 
This  wings  the  lie  that  malice  breeds  in  fear, 
No  tongue  so  vile  but  finds  a  kindred  ear ; 
Swift  flies  each  tale  of  laughter,  shame,  or  folly, 
Caught  by  Paul  Pry  and  carried  home  to  Polly ; 
On  this  each  foul  calumniator  leans, 
And  nods,  and  hints  the  villany  he  means ; 
Full  well  he  knows  what  latent  wildfire  lies 
In  the  close  whisper  and  the  dark  surmise  ; 


CURIOSITY.  15 

A  muffled  word,  a  wordless  wink,  has  woke 
A  warmer  throb  than  if  a  Dexter  spoke  ; 
And  he,  o'er  Everett's  periods  who  would  nod, 
To  track  a  secret  half  the  town  has  trod. 

0  Thou,  from  whose  rank  breath  nor  sex  can  save, 
Nor  sacred  virtue,  nor  the  powerless  grave, 
Felon  unwhipped !  than  whom  in  yonder  cells 
Full  many  a  groaning-  wretch  less  guilty  dwells, 
Blush  —  if  of  honest  blood  a  drop  remains, 
To  steal  its  lonely  way  along  thy  veins  ! 
Blush  —  if  the  bronze,  long  hardened  on  thy  cheek, 
Has  left  a  spot  where  that  poor  drop  can  speak  ! 
Blush  to  be  branded  with  the  Slanderer's  name, 
And  though  thou  dread'st  not  sin,  at  least  dread  shame ! 
We  hear,  indeed,  but  shudder  while  we  hear 
The  insidious  falsehood  and  the  heartless  jeer; 
For  each  dark  libel  that  thou  lick'st  to  shape, 
Thou  may'st  from  law,  but  not  from  scorn  escape ; 
The  pointed  finger,  cold,  averted  eye, 
Insulted  virtue's  hiss  —  thou  canst  not  fly. 

The  churl,  who  holds  it  heresy  to  think, 
Who  loves  no  music  but  the  dollar's  clink, 
Who  laughs  to  scorn  the  wisdom  of  the  schools, 
And  deems  the  first  of  poets  first  of  fools, 


16  CURIOSITY. 

Who  never  found  what  good  from  science  grew, 
Save  the  grand  truth,  that  one  and  one  are  two, 
And  marvels  Bowditch  o'er  a  book  should  pore, 
Unless  to  make  those  two  turn  into  four ; 
Who,  placed  where  CatskilFs  forehead  greets  the  sky, 
Grieves  that  such  quarries  all  unhewn  should  lie  ; 
Or,  gazing  where  Niagara's  torrents  thrill, 
Exclaims,  "  A  monstrous  stream  —  to  turn  a  mill ;" 
Who  loves  to  feel  the  blessed  winds  of  heaven, 
But  as  his  freighted  barks  are  portward  driven  ; 
Even  he,  across  whose  brain  scarce  dares  to  creep 
Aught  but  thrift's  parent  pair  —  to  get,  to  keep ; 
Who  never  learned  life's  real  bliss  to  know  — 
With  Curiosity  even  he  can  glow. 

Go,  seek  him  out  on  yon  dear  Gotham's  walk, 
Where  traffic's  venturers  meet  to  trade  and  talk ; 
Where  Mammon's  votaries  bend,  of  each  degree, 
The  hard-eyed  lender,  and  the  pale  lendee ; 
Where  rogues,  insolvent,  strut  in  whitewashed  pride, 
And  shove  the  dupes,  who  trusted  them,  aside. 
How  through  the  buzzing  crowd  he  threads  his  way, 
To  catch  the  flying  rumors  of  the  day ; 
To  learn  of  changing  stocks,  of  bargains  crossed, 
Of  breaking  merchants,  and  of  cargoes  lost ; 


CURIOSITY.  17 

The  thousand  ills  that  traffic's  walks  invade, 

And  give  the  heart-ache  to  the  sons  of  trade. 

How  cold  he  hearkens  to  some  bankrupt's  woe  ; 

Nods  his  wise  head,  and  cries  —  "I  told  you  so ; 

The  thriftless  fellow  lived  beyond  his  means, 

He  must  buy  brants  —  I  make  my  folks  eat  beans  ; " 

What  cares  he  for  the  knave,  the  knave's  sad  wife, 

The  blighted  prospects  of  an  anxious  life  ? 

The  kindly  throbs  that  other  men  control 

Ne'er  melt  the  iron  of  the  miser's  soul ; 

Through  life's  dark  road  his  sordid  way  he  wends, 

An  incarnation  of  fat  dividends  : 

But  when  to  death  he  sinks,  ungrieved,  unsung, 

Buoyed  by  the  blessing  of  no  mortal  tongue  ; 

No  worth  rewarded  and  no  want  redressed, 

To  scatter  fragrance  round  his  place  of  rest, 

What  shall  that  hallowed  epitaph  supply  — 

The  universal  woe  when  good  men  die  ? 

Cold  Curiosity  shall  linger  there, 

To  guess  the  wealth  he  leaves  his  tearless  heir ; 

Perchance  to  wonder  what  must  be  his  doom, 

In  the  far  land  that  lies  beyond  the  tomb ;  — 

Alas  !  for  him,  if,  in  its  awful  plan, 

Heaven  deal  with  him  as  he  hath  dealt  with  man ! 


18  CURIOSITY. 

Child  of  romance,  these  work-day  scenes  you  spurn, 
For  loftier  things  your  finer  pulses  burn ; 
Through  nature's  walks  your  curious  way  you  take, 
Gaze  on  her  glowing  bow,  her  glittering  flake, 
Her  spring's  first  cheerful  green,  her  autumn's  last, 
Born  in  the  breeze,  or  dying  in  the  blast; 
You  climb  the  mountain's  everlasting  wall, 
You  linger  where  the  thunder-waters  fall, 
You  love  to  wander  by  old  ocean's  side, 
And  hold  communion  with  its  sullen  tide  : 
Washed  to  your  foot  some  fragment  of  a  wreck, 
Fancy  shall  build  again  the  crowded  deck 
That  trod  the  waves,  till  mid  the  tempest's  frown 
The  sepulchre  of  living  men  went  down. 
Yet  Fancy,  with  her  milder,  tenderer  glow, 
But  dreams  what  Curiosity  would  know  ; 
Ye  would  stand  listening,  as  the  booming  gun 
Proclaimed  the  \vork  of  agony  half  done  ; 
There  would  ye  drink  each  drowning  seaman's  cry, 
As  wild  to  Heaven  he  cast  his  frantic  eye ; 
Though  vain  all  aid,  though  Pity's  blood  ran  cold, 
The  mortal  havoc  ye  would  dare  behold ; 
Still  Curiosity  would  wait  and  weep, 
Till  all  sank  down  to  slumber  in  the  deep. 


CTTRIOSITY. 


19 


Nor  yet  appeased  the  spirit's  restless  glow, 
Ye  would  explore  the  gloomy  waste  below  ; 
There,  where  the  joyful  sunbeams  never  fell, 
Where  ocean's  unrecorded  monsters  dwell ; 
Where  sleep  earth's  precious  things,  —  her  rifled  gold, 
Bones  bleached  by  ages,  bodies  hardly  cold, 
Of  those  who  bowed  to  fate  in  every  form, 
By  battle-strife,  by  pirate,  or  by  storm  ; 
The  sailor-chief,  who  freedom's  foes  defied, 
Wrapped  in  the  sacred  flag  for  which  he  died  ; 
The  wretch,  thrown  over  to  the  midnight  foam, 
Stabbed  in  his  blessed  dreams  of  love  and  home  ; 
The  mother,  with  her  fleshless  arms  still  clasped 
Round  the  scared  infant  that  in  death  she  grasped ;  — 
On  these,  and  sights  like  these,  ye  long  to  gaze, 
The  mournful  trophies  of  uncounted  days  ; 
All  that  the  miser  deep  has  brooded  o'er, 
Since  its  first  billow  rolled  to  find  a  shore. 

Once  more  the  Press  —  not  that  wrhich  daily  flings 
Its  fleeting  ray  across  life's  fleeting  things  — 
See  tomes  on  tomes  of  fancy  and  of  power, 
To  cheer  man's  heaviest,  warm  his  holiest  hour. 
Now  Fiction's  groves  we  tread,  where  young  Romance 
Laps  the  glad  senses  in  her  sweetest  trance ; 


20  CURIOSITY. 

Now  through  earth's  cold,  unpeopled  realms  we  range, 
And  mark  each  rolling  century's  awful  change  ; 
Turn  back  the  tide  of  ages  to  its  head, 
And  hoard  the  wisdom  of  the  honored  dead. 

'T  was  heaven  to  lounge  upon  a  couch,  said  Gray, 
And  read  new  novels  through  a  rainy  day : 
Add  but  the  Spanish  weed,  the  bard  was  right ; 
'T  is  heaven,  the  upper  heaven  of  calm  delight ; 
The  world  forgot,  to  sit  at  ease  reclined, 
While  round  one's  head  the  smoky  perfumes  wind, 
Firm  in  one  hand  the  ivory  folder  grasped, 
Scott's  uncut  latest  by  the  other  clasped, 
'T  is  heaven,  the  glowing,  graphic  page  to  turn, 
And  feel  within  the  ruling  passion  burn ; 
Now  through  the  dingles  of  his  own  bleak  isle, 
And  now  through  lands  that  wear  a  sunnier  smile, 
To  follow  him,  that  all-creative  one, 
Who  never  found  a  "  brother  near  his  throne." 

Look  now,  directed  by  yon  candle's  blaze, 
Where  the  false  shutter  half  its  trust  betrays  — 
Mark  that  fair  girl,  reclining  in  her  bed, 
Its  curtain  round  her  polished  shoulders  spread  : 
Dark  midnight  reigns,  the  storm  is  up  in  power ; 
What  keeps  her  waking  in  that  dreary  hour  ? 


CURIOSITY.  21 

See  where  the  volume  on  her  pillow  lies  — 
Claims  Radcliffe  or  Chapone  those  frequent  sighs  ? 
'Tis  some  wild  legend  —  now  her  kind  eye  fills, 
And  now  cold  terror  every  fibre  chills ; 
Still  she  reads  on  —  in  fiction's  labyrinth  lost, 
Of  tyrant  fathers,  and  of  true  love  crossed ; 
Of  clanking  fetters,  low,  mysterious  groans, 
Blood-crusted  daggers,  and  uncoffined  bones, 
Pale,  gliding  ghosts,  with  fingers  dropping  gore, 
And  blue  flames  dancing  round  a  dungeon  door  ;  — 
Still  she  reads  on  —  even  though  to  read  she  fears, 
And  in  each  key-hole  moan  strange  voices  hears, 
While  every  shadow  that  withdraws  her  look 
Glares  in  her  face,  the  goblin  of  her  book  ; 
Still  o'er  the  leaves  her  craving  eye  is  cast, 
On  all  she  feasts,  yet  hungers  for  the  last ; 
Counts  what  remain,  now  sighs  there  are  no  more, 
And  now  even  those  half  tempted  to  skip  o'er ; 
At  length,  the  bad  all  killed,  the  good  all  pleased, 
Her  thirsting  Curiosity  appeased, 
She  shuts  the  dear,  dear  book,  that  made  her  weep, 
Puts  out  her  light,  and  turns  away  to  sleep. 

Her  bright,  her  bloody  records  to  unroll, 
See  History  come,  and  wake  the  inquiring  soul : 


22  CURIOSITY. 

How  bounds  the  bosom  at  each  wondrous  deed 

Of  those  who  founded,  and  of  those  who  freed ! 

The  good,  the  valiant  of  our  own  loved  clime, 

Whose  names  shall  brighten  through  the  clouds  of  time. 

How  rapt  we  linger  o'er  the  volumed  lore 

That  tracks  the  glories  of  each  distant  shore ! 

In  all  their  grandeur  and  in  all  their  gloom, 

The  throned,  the  thralled,  rise  dimly  from  the  tomb ; 

Chiefs,  sages,  bards,  the  giants  of  their  race, 

Earth's  monarch  men,  her  greatness  and  her  grace ; 

Warmed  as  we  read,  the  penman's  page  we  spurn, 

And  to  each  near,  each  far  arena  turn  ; 

Here,  where  the  Pilgrim's  altar  first  was  built, 

Here,  where  the  patriot's  life-blood  first  was  spilt; 

There,  where  new  empires  spread  along  each  spot 

Where  old  ones  flourished,  but  to  be  forgot, 

Or,  direr  judgment,  spared  to  fill  a  page, 

And  with  their  errors  warn  an  after  age. 

And  where  is  he,  upon  that  Rock  can  stand, 
Nor  with  their  firmness  feel  his  heart  expand, 
Who  a  new  empire  planted  where  they  trod, 
And  gave  it  to  their  children  and  their  God  ? 
Who  yon  immortal  mountain-shrine  hath  pressed, 
With  saintlier  relics  stored  than  priest  e'er  blessed, 


CURIOSITY.  23 

But  felt  each  grateful  pulse  more  warmly  glow, 

In  voiceless  reverence  for  the  dead  below  ? 

Who,  too,  by  Cariosity  led  on, 

To  tread  the  shores  of  kingdoms  come  and  gone, 

Where  faith  her  martyrs  to  the  fagot  led, 

Where  freedom's  champions  on  the  scaffold  bled, 

Where  ancient  power,  though  stripped  of  ancient  fame,. 

Curbed,  but  not  crushed,  still  lives  for  guilt  and  shamer 

But  prouder,  happier,  turns  on  home  to  gaze, 

And  thanks  his  God  who  gave  him  better  days  ? 

Withdraw  yon  curtain,  look  within  that  room, 
Where  all  is  splendor,  yet  where  all  is  gloom  : 
Why  weeps  that  mother  ?  why,  in  pensive  mood, 
Group  noiseless  round,  that  little,  lovely  brood  ? 
The  battledoor  is  still,  laid  by  each  book, 
And  the  harp  slumbers  in  its  customed  nook. 
Who  hath  done  this  ?  what  cold,  unpitying  foe 
Hath  made  this  house  the  dwelling-place  of  woe  ? 
'T  is  he,  the  husband,  father,  lost  in  care, 
O'er  that  sweet  fellow  in  his  cradle  there : 
The  gallant  bark  that  rides  by  yonder  strand 
Bears  him  to-morrow  from  his  native  land. 
Why  turns  he,  half  unwilling,  from  his  home, 
To  tempt  the  ocean,  and  the  earth  to  roam  ? 
3 


24  CURIOSITY. 

Wealth  he  can  boast  a  miser's  sigh  would  hush, 
And  health  is  laughing  in  that  ruddy  blush ; 
Friends  spring  to  greet  him,  and  he  has  no  foe  — 
So  honored  arid  so  blessed,  what  bids  him  go? — 
His  eye  must  see,  his  foot  each  spot  must  tread, 
Where  sleeps  the  dust  of  earth's  recorded  dead ; 
Where  rise  the  monuments  of  ancient  time, 
Pillar  and  pyramid  in  age  sublime ; 
The  Pagan's  temple  and  the  Churchman's  tower, 
War's  bloodiest  plain  and  Wisdom's  greenest  bower ; 
All  that  his  wonder  woke  in  school-boy  themes, 
All  that  his  fancy  fired  in  youthful  dreams : 
Where  Socrates  once  taught  he  thirsts  to  stray, 
Where  Homer  poured  his  everlasting  lay ; 
From  Virgil's  tomb  he  longs  to  pluck  one  flower, 
By  Avon's  stream  to  live  one  moonlight  hour ; 
To  pause  where  England  "  garners  up  "  her  great, 
And  drop  a  patriot's  tear  to  Milton's  fate  : 
Fame's  living  masters,  too,  he  must  behold. 
Whose  deeds  shall  blazon  with  the  best  of  old ; 
Nations  compare,  their  laws  and  customs  scan, 
And  read,  wherever  spread,  the  book  of  Man ; 
For  these  he  goes,  self-banished  from  his  hearth, 
And  wrings  the  hearts  of  all  he  loves  on  earth. 


CUR  i  os  IT  y.  25 

Yet  say,  shall  not  new  joy  those  hearts  inspire, 
When,  grouping  round  the  future  winter  fire, 
To  hear  the  wonders  of  the  world  they  burn, 
And  lose  his  absence  in  his  glad  return  ?  — 
Keturn  ?  —  alas !  he  shall  return  no  more, 
To  bless  his  own  sweet  home,  his  own  proud  shore. 
Look  once  again  —  cold  in  his  cabin  now, 
Death's  finger-mark  is  on  his  pallid  brow ; 
No  wife  stood  by,  her  patient  watch  to  keep, 
To  smile  on  him,  then  turn  away  to  weep ; 
Kind  woman's  place  rough  mariners  supplied, 
And  shared  the  wanderer's  blessing  when  he  died. 
Wrapped  in  the  raiment  that  it  long  must  wear, 
His  body  to  the  deck  they  slowly  bear ; 
Even  there  the  spirit  that  I  sing  is  true, 
The  crew  look  on  with  sad,  but  curious  view; 
The  setting  sun  flings  round  his  farewell  rays, 
O'er  the  broad  ocean  not  a  ripple  plays ; 
How  eloquent,  how  awful,  in  its  power, 
The  silent  lecture  of  death's  sabbath-hour  ! 
One  voice  that  silence  breaks  —  the  prayer  is  said, 
And  the  last  rite  man  pays  to  man  is  paid  ; 
The  plashing  waters  mark  his  resting-place, 
And  fold  him  round  in  one  long,  cold  embrace ; 


26  CURIOSITY. 

Bright  bubbles  for  a  moment  sparkle  o'er, 
Then  break,  to  be,  like  him,  beheld  no  more  ; 
Down,  countless  fathoms  down,  he  sinks  to  sleep, 
With  all  the  nameless  shapes  that  haunt  the  deep. 

"  Alps  rise  on  Alps  "  —  in  vain  my  muse  essays 
To  lay  the  spirit  that  she  dared  to  raise  : 
What  spreading  scenes  of  rapture  and  of  woe, 
With  rose  and  cypress  lure  me  as  I  go ! 
In  every  question  and  in  every  glance, 
In  folly's  wonder  and  in  wisdom's  trance, 
In  all  of  life,  nor  yet  of  life  alone, 
In  all  beyond,  this  mighty  power  we  own. 
We  would  unclasp  the  mystic  book  of  fate, 
And  trace  the  paths  of  all  we  love  and  hate  ; 
The  father's  heart  would  learn  his  children's  doom, 
Even  when  that  heart  is  crumbling  in  the  tomb ; 
If  they  must  sink  in  guilt,  or  soar  to  fame. 
And  leave  a  hated  or  a  hallowed  name ; 
By  hope  elated,  or  depressed  by  doubt, 
Even  in  the  death-pang  he  would  find  it  out. 

What  boots  it  to  your  dust,  your  son  were  born 
An  empire's  idol  or  a  rabble's  scorn  ? 
Think  ye  the  franchised  spirit  shall  return, 
To  share  his  triumph,  his  disgrace  to  mourn  ? 


CURIOSITY.  27 

Ah !  Curiosity,  by  thee  inspired, 

This  truth  to  know  how  oft  has  man  inquired ! 

And  is  it  fancy  all  ?  can  reason  say 

Earth's  loves  must  moulder  with  earth's  mouldering  clay 

That  death  can  chill  the  father's  sacred  glow, 

And  hush  the  throb  that  none  but  mothers  know  ? 

Must  we  believe  those  tones  of  dear  delight, 

The  morning  welcome  and  the  sweet  good-night, 

The  kind  monition  and  the  well-earned  praise, 

That  won  and  warmed  us  in  our  earlier  days, 

Turned,  as  they  fell,  to  cold  and  common  air  ?  — 

Speak,  proud  Philosophy,  the  truth  declare. 

Yet  no !  the  fond  delusion,  if  no  more, 
We  would  not  yield  for  wisdom's  cheerless  lore ; 
A  tender  creed  they  hold,  who  dare  believe 
The  dead  return,  with  them  to  joy  or  grieve. 
How  sweet,  while  lingering  slow  on  shore  or  hill, 
When  all  the  pleasant  sounds  of  earth  are  still, 
When  the  round  moon  rolls  through  the  unpillared  skies, 
And  stars  look  down  as  they  were  angels'  eyes, 
How  sweet  to  deem  our  lost,  adored  ones  nigh, 
And  hear  their  voices  in  the  night  wind's  sigh  ! 
Full  many  an  idle  dream  that  hope  had  broke, 
And  the  awed  heart  to  holy  goodness  woke ; 


28  CURIOSITY. 

Full  many  a  felon's  guilt  in  thought  had  died, 

Feared  he  his  father's  spirit  by  his  side ; — 

Then  let  that  fear,  that  hope,  control  the  mind, 

Still  let  us  question,  still  no  answer  find ; 

Let  Curiosity  of  Heaven  inquire, 

Nor  earth's  cold  dogmas  quench  the  ethereal  fire. 

Nor  even  to  life,  nor  death,  nor  time  confined  — 
The  dread  hereafter  fills  the  exploring  mind ; 
We  burst  the  grave,  profane  the  coffin's  lid, 
Unwisely  ask  of  all  so  wisely  hid  ; 
Eternity's  dark  record  we  would  read, 
Mysteries  unravelled  yet  by  mortal  creed ; 
Of  life  to  come,  unending  joy  and  woe, 
And  all  that  holy  wranglers  dream  below ; 
To  find  their  jarring  dogmas  out  we  long, 
Or  which  is  right,  or  whether  all  be  wrong ; 
Things  of  an  hour,  we  would  invade  His  throne, 
And  find  out  Him,  the  Everlasting  One  ! 
Faith  we  may  boast,  undarkened  by  a  doubt, 
We  thirst  to  find  each  awful  secret  out ; 
Hope  may  sustain,  and  innocence  impart 
Her  sweet  specific  to  the  fearless  heart, 
The  inquiring  spirit  will  not  be  controlled, 
We  would  make  certain  all,  and  all  behold. 


CURIOSITY.  29 

Unfathomed  well-head  of  the  boundless  soul ! 
Whose  living  waters  lure  us  as  they  roll, 
From  thy  pure  wave  one  cheering  hope  we  draw  — 
Man,  man,  at  least,  shall  spurn  proud  nature's  law. 
All  that  have  breath,  but  he,  lie  down  content, 
Life's  purpose  served,  indeed,  when  life  is  spent ; 
All  as  in  Paradise  the  same  are  found ; 
The  beast,  whose  footstep  shakes  the  solid  ground, 
The  insect  living  on  a  summer  spire, 
The  bird,  whose  pinion  courts  the  sunbeam's  fire ; 
In  lair  and  nest,  in  way  and  want,  the  same 
As  when  their  sires  sought  Adam  for  a  name : 
Their  be-all  and  their  end-all  here  below, 
They  nothing  need  beyond,  nor  need  to  know; 
Earth  and  her  hoards  their  every  want  supply, 
They  revel,  rest,  then  fearless,  hopeless,  die  ! 
But  Man,  his  Maker's  likeness,  lord  of  earth, 
Who  owes  to  nature  little  but  his  birth, 
Shakes  down  her  puny  chains,  her  wants,  and  woes, 
One  world  subdues,  and  for  another  glows. 
See  him,  the  feeblest,  in  his  cradle  laid; 
See  him,  the  mightiest,  in  his  mind  arrayed ! 
How  wide  the  gulf  he  clears,  how  bold  the  flight, 
That  bears  him  upward  to  the  realms  of  light ! 


30 


CURIOSITY. 


By  restless  Curiosity  inspired, 

Through  all  his  subject  world  he  roves  untired; 

Looks  back  and  scans  the  infant  days  of  yore, 

On  to  the  time  when  time  shall  be  no  more ; 

Even  in  life's  parting  throb  its  spirit  burns, 

And,  shut  from  earth,  to  heaven  more  warmly  turns. 

Shall  he  alone,  of  mortal  dwellers  here, 
Thus  soar  aloft  to  sink  in  mid-career  ? 
Less  favored  than  a  worm,  shall  his  stern  doom 
Lock  up  these  seraph  longings  in  the  tomb  ? — 
0  Thou,  whose  fingers  raised  us  from  the  dust, 
Till  there  we  sleep  again,  be  this  our  trust : 
This  sacred  hunger  marks  the  immortal  mind, 
By  Thee  'twas  given,  for  Thee,  for  Heaven,  designed; 
There  the  rapt  spirit,  from  earth's  grossness  freed, 
Shall  see,  and  know,  and  be  like  Thee  indeed. 

Here  let  me  pause  —  no  further  I  rehearse 
What  claims  a  loftier  soul,  a  nobler  verse ; 
The  mountain's  foot  I  have  but  loitered  round, 
Nor  dared  to  scale  its  highest,  holiest  ground; 
But  ventured  on  the  pebbly  shore  to  stray, 
While  the  broad  ocean  all  before  me  lay  ;  — 
How  bright  the  boundless  prospect  there  on  high ! 
How  rich  the  pearls  that  here  all  hidden  lie ! 


CURIOSITY.  31 

But  not  for  me  —  to  life's  coarse  service  sold, 

Where  thought  lies  barren  and  nought  breeds  but  gold — • 

'T  is  yours,  ye  favored  ones,  at  whose  command, 

From  the  cold  world  I  ventured,  here  to  stand  : 

Ye  who  were  lapped  in  Wisdom's  murmuring  bowers, 

Who  still  to  bright  improvement  yield  your  hours  ; 

To  you  the  privilege  and  the  power  belong, 

To  give  my  theme  the  grace  of  living  song ; 

Yours  be  the  flapping  of  the  eagle's  wing, 

To  dare  the  loftiest  crag  and  heavenward  spring; 

Mine  the  light  task  to  hop  from  spray  to  spray, 

Blessed  if  I  charm  one  summer  hour  away. 

One  summer  hour  —  its  golden  sands  have  run, 
And  the  poor  labor  of  the  bard  is  done  — 
Yet,  ere  I  fling  aside  my  humble  lyre, 
Let  one  fond  wish  its  trembling  strings  inspire ; 
Fancy  the  task  to  Feeling  shall  resign, 
And  the  heart  prompt  the  warm,  untutored  line. 
Peace  to  this  ancient  spot !  here,  as  of  old, 
May  learning  dwell  and  all  her  stores  unfold ; 
Still  may  her  priests  around  these  altars  stand, 
And  train  to  truth  the  children  of  the  land ; 
Bright  be  their  paths  within  these  shades  who  rest, 
These  brother-bands  —  beneath  his  guidance  blessed, 


32  CURIOSITY. 

Who,  with  their  fathers,  here  turned  wisdom's  page, 

Who  comes  to  them  the  Statesman  and  the  Sage. 

Praise  be  his  portion  in  his  labors  here, 

The  praise  that  cheered  a  Kirkland's  mild  career; 

The  love  that  finds  in  every  breast  a  shrine, 

When  zeal  and  gentleness  with  wisdom  join. 

Here  may  he  sit,  while  race  succeeding  race 

Go  proudly  forth  his  parent  care  to  grace ; 

In  head  and  heart  by  him  prepared  to  rise, 

To  take  their  stations  with  the  good  and  wise  : 

This  crowning  recompense  to  him  be  given, 

To  see  them  guard  on  earth  and  guide  to  heaven ; 

Thus  in  their  talents,  in  their  virtues  blessed, 

O  be  his  ripest  years  his  happiest  and  his  best ! 


SHAKSPEARE  ODE. 


DELIVERED  AT   THE  BOSTON   THEATRE   IN   1923,  AT   THE   EXHIBITION    OP  A 
PAGEANT  FN  HONOR  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


SHAKSPEARE  ODE. 


GOD  of  the  glorious  Lyre  ! 
Whose  notes  of  old  on  lofty  Pindus  rang", 

While  Jove's  exulting  choir 
Caught  the  glad  echoes  and  responsive  sang— 
Come  !  bless  the  service  and  the  shrine 
We  consecrate  to  thee  and  thine. 

Fierce  from  the  frozen  north, 
When  Havoc  led  his  legions  forth, 
O'er  Learning's  sunny  groves  the  dark  destroyers  spread; 
In  dust  the  sacred  statue  slept, 
Fair  Science  round  her  altars  wept, 
And  Wisdom  cowled  his  head. 

At  length,  Olympian  lord  of  morn, 
The  raven  veil  of  night  was  torn, 

When,  through  golden  clouds  descending, 
Thou  didst  hold  thy  radiant  flight, 

O'er  Nature's  lovely  pageant  bending, 
Till  Avon  rolled,  all-sparkling,  to  thy  sight ! 


36  SHAKSPEAKE    ODE. 

There,  on  its  bank,  beneath  the  mulberry's  shade, 
Wrapped  in  young  dreams,  a  wild-eyed  minstrel  strayed. 
Lighting  there,  and  lingering  long, 
Thou  didst  teach  the  bard  his  song ; 

Thy  fingers  strung  his  sleeping  shell, 
And  round  his  brows  a  garland  curled ; 

On  his  lips  thy  spirit  fell, 
And  bade  him  wake  and  warm  the  world ! 

Then  Shakspeare  rose ! 
Across  the  trembling  strings 
His  daring  hand  he  flings, 
And  lo !  a  new  creation  glows  ! 
There,  clustering  round,  submissive  to  his  will, 
Fate's  vassal  train  his  high  commands  fulfil. 

Madness,  with  his  frightful  scream, 
Vengeance,  leaning  on  his  lance, 
Avarice,  with  his  blade  and  beam, 

Hatred,  blasting  with  a  glance, 
Remorse  that  weeps,  and  Rage  that  roars, 
And  Jealousy  that  dotes,  but  dooms,  and  murders,  yet 
adores. 


SHAKSPEARE    ODE.  37 

Mirth,  his  face  with  sunbeams  lit, 
Waking  laughter's  merry  swell, 
Arm  in  arm  with  fresh-eyed  Wit, 
That  waves  his  tingling  lash,  while  Folly  shakes  his  bell 

Despair,  that  haunts  the  gurgling  stream, 
Kissed  by  the  virgin  moon's  cold  beam, 
AVhere  some  lost  maid  wild  chaplets  wreathes, 
And,  swan-like,  there  her  own  dirge  breathes, 
Then,  broken-hearted,  sinks  to  rest, 
Beneath  the  bubbling  wave,  that  shrouds  her  maniac 
breast. 

Young  Love,  with  eye  of  tender  gloom, 
Now  drooping  o'er  the  hallowed  tomb 
Where  his  plighted  victims  lie  — 
Where  they  met,  but  met  to  die  ; 
And  now,  when  crimson  buds  are  sleeping, 
Through  the  dewy  arbor  peeping, 
Where  Beauty's  child,  the  frowning  world  forgot, 
To  Youth's  devoted  tale  is  listening, 
Kapture  on  her  dark  lash  glistening, 
While  fairies  leave  their  cowslip  cells  and  guard  the 
happy  spot. 


38  SHAKSPEARE    ODE. 

Thus  rise  the  phantom  throng, 

Obedient  to  their  Master's  song, 
And  lead  in  willing  chains  the  wondering  soul  along. 
For  other  worlds  war's  Great  One  sighed  in  vain  — 
O'er  other  worlds  see  Shakspeare  rove  and  reign  ! 
The  rapt  magician  of  his  own  wild  lay, 
Earth  and  her  tribes  his  mystic  wand  obey. 
Old  Ocean  trembles,  Thunder  cracks  the  skies, 
Air  teems  with  shapes,  and  telltale  spectres  rise ; 
Night's  paltering  hags  their  fearful  orgies  keep, 
And  faithless  Guilt  unseals  the  lip  of  Sleep ; 
Time  yields  his  trophies  up,  and  Death  restores 
The  mouldered  victims  of  his  voiceless  shores. 
The  fireside  legend  and  the  faded  page, 
The  crime  that  cursed,  the  deed  that  blessed  an  age, 
All,  all  come  forth  —  the  good  to  charm  and  cheer, 
To  scourge  bold  Vice,  and  start  the  generous  tear ; 
With  pictured  Folly  gazing  fools  to  shame, 
And  guide  young  Glory's  foot  along  the  path  of  fame. 

Lo !  hand  in  hand, 
Hell's  juggling  sisters  stand, 
To  greet  their  victim  from  the  fight ; 

Grouped  on  the  blasted  heath, 
They  tempt  him  to  the  work  of  death, 
Then  melt  in  air,  and  mock  his  wondering  sight. 


SHAKSPEARE    ODE.  39 

In  midnight's  hallowed  hour 
He  seeks  the  fatal  tower, 
Where  the  lone  raven,  perched  on  high, 
Pours  to  the  sullen  gale 
Her  hoarse,  prophetic  wail, 
And  croaks  the  dreadful  moment  nigh. 
See,  by  the  phantom  dagger  led, 

Pale,  guilty  thing ! 
Slowly  he  steals,  with  silent  tread, 
And  grasps  his  coward  steel  to  smite  his  sleeping  king ! 

Hark !  't  is  the  signal  bell, 
Struck  by  that  bold  and  unsexed  one 
Whose  milk  is  gall,  whose  heart  is  stone ; 
His  ear  hath  caught  the  knell  — 

'T  is  done  !  't  is  done  ! 
Behold  him  from  the  chamber  rushing 
Where  his  dead  monarch's  blood  is  gushing ! 
Look  where  he  trembling  stands, 

Sad  gazing  there, 

Life's  smoking  crimson  on  his  hands, 
And  in  his  felon  heart  the  worm  of  wild  despair ! 

Mark  the  sceptred  traitor  slumbering ! 

There  flit  the  slaves  of  conscience  round, 
With  boding  tongue  foul  murders  numbering ; 

Sleep's  leaden  portals  catch  the  sound. 
4 


40  SHAKSPEARE    ODE. 

In  his  dream  of  blood  for  mercy  quaking, 
At  his  own  dull  scream  behold  him  waking ! 
Soon  that  dream  to  fate  shall  turn, 
For  him  the  living  furies  burn ; 
For  him  the  vulture  sits  on  yonder  misty  peak, 
And  chides  the  lagging  night,  and  whets  her  hungry 

beak. 

Hark !  the  trumpet's  warning  breath 
Echoes  round  the  vale  of  death. 
Unhorsed,  unhelmed,  disdaining  shield, 
The  panting  tyrant  scours  the  field. 
Vengeance  !  he  meets  thy  dooming  blade  ! 
The  scourge  of  earth,  the  scorn  of  Heaven, 
He  falls  !  unwept  and  unforgiven, 
And  all  his  guilty  glories  fade. 
Like  a  crushed  reptile  in  the  dust  he  lies, 
And  Hate's  last  lightning  quivers  from  his  eyes  ! 

Behold  yon  crownless  king — 

Yon  white-locked,  weeping  sire  — 
"Where  heaven's  unpillared  chambers  ring, 

And  burst  their  streams  of  flood  and  fire ! 
He  gave  them  all  —  the  daughters  of  his  love  ; 
That  recreant  pair !  they  drive  him  forth  to  rove  ; 


SHAKSPEARE    ODE.  41 

In  such  a  night  of  woe, 
The  cubless  regent  of  the  wood 
Forgets  to  bathe  her  fangs  in  blood, 
And  caverns  with  her  foe  ! 
Yet  one  was  ever  kind  ; 
Why  lingers  she  behind  ? 
0  pity  !  —  view  him  by  her  dead  form  kneeling, 
Even  in  wild  frenzy  holy  nature  feeling. 

His  aching  eye-balls  strain 
To  see  those  curtained  orbs  unfold, 
That  beauteous  bosom  heave  again ; 

But  all  is  dark  and  cold. 
In  agony  the  father  shakes  ; 
Grief's  choking  note 
Swells  in  his  throat, 

Each  withered  heart-string  tugs  and  breaks  ! 
Round  her  pale  neck  his  dying  arms  he  wreathes, 
And  on  her  marble  lips  his  last,  his  death-kiss  breathes. 

Down,  trembling  wing !  —  shall  insect  weakness  keep 

The  sun-defying  eagle's  sweep  ? 

A  mortal  strike  celestial  strings, 
And  feebly  echo  what  a  seraph  sings  ? 

Who  now  shall  grace  the  glowing  throne, 

Where,  all  unrivalled,  all  alone, 


42  SHAKSPEARE    ODE. 

Bold  Shakspeare  sat,  and  looked  creation  through, 
The  minstrel  monarch  of  the  worlds  he  drew  ? 

That  throne  is  cold  —  that  lyre  in  death  unstrung 
On  whose  proud  note  delighted  Wonder  hung. 
Yet  old  Oblivion,  as  in  wrath  he  sweeps, 
One  spot  shall  spare  —  the  grave  where  Shakspeare  sleeps. 
Rulers  and  ruled  in  common  gloom  may  lie, 
But  Nature's  laureate  bards  shall  never  die. 
Art's  chiseled  boast  and  Glory's  trophied  shore 
Must  live  in  numbers,  or  can  live  no  more. 
While  sculptured  Jove  some  nameless  waste  may  claim, 
Still  rolls  the  Olympic  car  in  Pindar's  fame ; 
Troy's  doubtful  walls  in  ashes  passed  away, 
Yet  frown  on  Greece  in  Homer's  deathless  lay ; 
Rome,  slowly  sinking  in  her  crumbling  fanes, 
Stands  all  immortal  in  her  Maro's  strains ; 
So,  too,  yon  giant  empress  of  the  isles, 
On  whose  broad  sway  the  sun  forever  smiles, 
To  Time's  unsparing  rage  one  day  must  bend, 
And  all  her  triumphs  in  her  Shakspeare  end  ! 

O  thou  !  to  whose  creative  powei 
We  dedicate  the  festal  hour, 
While  Grace  and  Goodness  round  the  altar  stand, 
Learning's    anointed    train,   and    Beauty's   rose-lipped 
band  — 


SHAKSPEARE    ODE.  43 

Realms  yet  unborn,  in  accents  now  unknown, 
Thy  song-  shall  learn,  and  bless  it  for  their  own. 
Deep  in  the  West  as  Independence  roves, 
His  banners  planting  round  the  land  he  loves, 
Where  Nature  sleeps  in  Eden's  infant  grace, 
In  time's  full  hour  shall  spring  a  glorious  race. 
Thy  name,  thy  verse,  thy  language,  shall  they  bear, 
And  deck  for  thee  the  vaulted  temple  there. 
Our  Roman-hearted  fathers  broke 
Thy  parent  empire's  galling  yoke ; 
But  thou,  harmonious  master  of  the  mind, 
Around  their  sons  a  gentler  chain  shalt  bind ; 
Once  more  in  thee  shall  Albion's  sceptre  wave, 
And  what  her  Monarch  lost   her  Monarch-Bard  shall 
save. 


ODE. 


PRONOUNCED  AT  THE  CENTENNIAL   CELEBRATION  OF  THE  SETTLEMENT 
OF  BOSTON,   SEPTEMBER,  1830. 


CENTENNIAL   ODE. 


I. 

NOT  to  the  Pagan's  mount  I  turn 

For  inspiration  now ; 
Olympus  and  its  gods  I  spurn  — 

Pure  One,  be  with  me,  Thou  ! 

Thou,  in  whose  awful  name, 

From  suffering  and  from  shame, 
Our  fathers  fled,  and  braved  a  pathless  sea ; 

Thou,  in  whose  holy  fear, 

They  fixed  an  empire  here, 
And  gave  it  to  their  children  and  to  Thee. 

II. 

And  you !  ye  bright  ascended  Dead, 

Who  scorned  the  bigot's  yoke, 
Come,  round  this  place  your  influence  shed; 

Your  spirits  I  invoke. 

Come,  as  ye  came  of  yore, 

When  on  an  unknown  shore 


48  CENTENNIAL    ODE. 

Your  daring  hands  the  flag  of  faith  unfurled, 

To  float  sublime, 

Through  future  time, 
The  beacon-banner  of  another  world. 

III. 

Behold !  they  come — those  sainted  forms, 
Unshaken  through  the  strife  of  storms ; 
Heaven's  winter  cloud  hangs  coldly  down, 
And  earth  puts  on  its  rudest  frown ; 
But  colder,  ruder  was  the  hand 
That  drove  them  from  their  own  fair  land ; 
Their  own  fair  land — Refinement's  chosen  seat, 
Art's  trophied  dwelling,  Learning's  green  retreat ; 
By  valor  guarded,  and  by  victory  crowned, 
For  all,  but  gentle  Charity,  renowned. 

With  streaming  eye,  yet  steadfast  heart, 
Even  from  that  land  they  dared  to  part, 

And  burst  each  tender  tie  ; 
Haunts,  where  their  sunny  youth  was  passed, 
Homes,  where  they  fondly  hoped  at  last 

In  peaceful  age  to  die. 
Friends,  kindred,  comfort,  all  they  spurned, 

Their  fathers'  hallowed  graves, 
And  to  a  world  of  darkness  turned, 
Beyond  a  world  of  waves 


CENTENNIAL    ODE.  49 

IV. 

When  Israel's  race  from  bondage  fled, 
Signs  from  on  high  the  wanderers  led ; 
But  here  —  Heaven  hung  no  symbol  here, 
Their  steps  to  guide,  their  souls  to  cheer ; 
They  saw,  through  sorrow's  lengthening  night, 
Nought  but  the  fagot's  guilty  light ; 
The  cloud  they  gazed  at  was  the  smoke 
That  round  their  murdered  brethren  broke. 
Nor  power  above,  nor  power  below, 
Sustained  them  in  their  hour  of  woe ; 
A  fearful  path  they  trod, 

And  dared  a  fearful  doom ; 
To  build  an  altar  to  their  God, 

And  find  a  quiet  tomb. 

V. 

But  not  alone,  not  all  unblessed, 
The  exile  sought  a  place  of  rest ; 
ONE  dared  with  him  to  burst  the  knot 
That  bound  her  to  her  native  spot ; 
Her  low,  sweet  voice  in  comfort  spoke, 
As  round  their  bark  the  billows  broke  ; 
She  through  the  midnight  watch  was  there, 
With  him  to  bend  her  knees  in  prayer ; 


50  CENTENNIAL     ODE. 

She  trod  the  shore  with  girded  heart, 
Through  good  and  ill  to  claim  her  part  ; 
In  life,  in  death,  with  him  to  seal 
Her  kindred  love,  her  kindred  zeal. 

VI. 

They  come ;  —  that  coming  who  shall  te J  ? 
The  eye  may  weep,  the  heart  may  swell, 
But  the  poor  tongue  in  vain  essays 
A  fitting  note  for  them  to  raise. 
We  hear  the  after-shout  that  rings 
For  them  who  smote  the  power  of  kings  ; 
The  swelling  triumph  all  would  share, 
But  who  the  dark  defeat  would  dare, 
And  boldly  meet  the  wrath  and  woe 
That  wait  the  unsuccessful  blow  ? 
It  were  an  envied  fate,  we  deem, 
To  live  a  land's  recorded  theme, 

When  we  are  in  the  tomb ; 
We,  too,  might  yield  the  joys  of  home, 
And  waves  of  winter  darkness  roam, 

And  tread  a  shore  of  gloom  — 
Knew  we  those  waves,  through  coming  time, 
Should  roll  our  names  to  every  clime ; 


CENTENNIAL    ODE.  51 

Felt  we  that  millions  on  that  shore 

Should  stand,  our  memory  to  adore. 

But  no  glad  vision  burst  in  light 

Upon  the  Pilgrims'  aching  sight ; 

Their  hearts  no  proud  hereafter  swelled ; 

Deep  shadows  veiled  the  way  they  held  ; 
The  yell  of  vengeance  was  their  trump  of  fame ; 
Their  monument,  a  grave  without  a  name. 

VII. 

Yet,  strong  in  weakness,  there  they  stand, 

On  yonder  ice-hound  rock, 
Stern  and  resolved,  that  faithful  band, 

To  meet  Fate's  rudest  shock. 
Though  anguish  rends  the  father's  breast, 
For  them,  his  dearest  and  his  best, 

"With  him  the  waste  who  trod  — 
Though  tears  that  freeze  the  mother  sheds 
Upon  her  children's  houseless  heads  — 

The  Christian  turns  to  God ! 

vin. 

In  grateful  adoration  now, 
Upon  the  barren  sands  they  bow. 
What  tongue  of  joy  e'er  woke  such  prayer 
As  bursts  in  desolation  there  ? 


52  CENTENNIAL   ODE. 

What  arm  of  strength  e'er  wrought  such  power 
As  waits  to  crown  that  feeble  hour  ? 
There  into  life  an  infant  empire  springs ! 
There  falls  the  iron  from  the  soul ; 
There  Liberty's  young  accents  roll 
Up  to  the  King  of  kings ! 

To  fair  creation's  farthest  bound 
That  thrilling  summons  yet  shall  sound ; 
The  dreaming  nations  shall  awake, 
And  to  their  centre  earth's  old  kingdoms  shake. 
Pontiff  and  prince,  your  sway 
Must  crumble  from  that  day ; 
Before  the  loftier  throne  of  Heaven 
The  hand  is  raised,  the  pledge  is  given, 
One  monarch  to  obey,  one  creed  to  own,  — 
That  monarch,  God ;  that  creed,  His  word  alone. 

IX. 

Spread  out  earth's  holiest  records  here, 
Of  days  and  deeds  to  reverence  dear ; 
A  zeal  like  this  what  pious  legends  tell  ? 
On  kingdoms  built 
In  blood  and  guilt, 
The  worshippers  of  vulgar  triumph  dwell  — 


CENTENNIAL   ODE.  53 

But  what  exploit  with  theirs  shall  page, 

Who  rose  to  bless  their  kind  — 
Who  left  their  nation  and  their  age, 
Man's  spirit  to  unbind  ? 

Who  boundless  seas  passed  o'er, 
And  boldly  met,  in  every  path, 
Famine,  and  frost,  and  heathen  wrath, 

To  dedicate  a  shore, 

Where  Piety's  meek  train  might  breathe  their  vow, 
And  seek  their  Maker  with  an  unshamed  brow ; 
Where  Liberty's  glad  race  might  proudly  come, 
And  set  up  there  an  everlasting  home  ? 

X. 

O,  many  a  time  it  hath  been  told, 
The  story  of  those  men  of  old. 

For  this  fair  Poetry  hath  wreathed 

Her  sweetest,  purest  flower ; 
For  this  proud  Eloquence  hath  breathed 

His  strain  of  loftiest  power ; 
Devotion,  too,  hath  lingered  round 
Each  spot  of  consecrated  ground, 

And  hill  and  valley  blessed ; 
There,  where  our  banished  fathers  strayed, 
There,  where  they  loved,  and  wept,  and  prayed, 
There,  where  their  ashes  rest. 


54  CENTENNIAL   ODE. 

XI. 

And  never  may  they  rest  unsung, 
While  liberty  can  find  a  tongue. 
Twine,  Gratitude,  a  wreath  for  them 
More  deathless  than  the  diadem, 

Who,  to  life's  noblest  end, 
Gave  up  life's  noblest  powers, 

And  bade  the  legacy  descend 
Down,  down  to  us  and  ours. 

XII. 

By  centuries  now  the  glorious  hour  we  mark, 
When  to  these  shores  they  steered  their  shattered  bark ; 
And  still,  as  other  centuries  melt  away, 
Shall  other  ages  come  to  keep  the  day. 
When  we  are  dust,  who  gather  round  this  spot, 
Our  joys,  our  griefs,  our  very  names  forgot, 
Here  shall  the  dwellers  of  the  land  be  seen, 
To  keep  the  memory  of  the  Pilgrims  green. 
Nor  here  alone  their  praises  shall  go  round, 
Nor  here  alone  their  virtues  shall  abound ; 
Broad  as  the  empire  of  the  free  shall  spread, 
Far  as  the  foot  of  man  shall  dare  to  tread, 
Where  oar  hath  never  dipped,  where  human  tongue 
Hath  never  through  the  woods  of  ages  rung,  — 


CENTENNIAL    ODE.  55 

There,  where  the  eagle's  scream  and  wild  wolf's  cry 
Keep  ceaseless  day  and  night  through  earth  and  sky,  — 
Even  there,  in  after  tune,  as  toil  and  taste 
Go  forth  in  gladness  to  redeem  the  waste,  — 
Even  there  shall  rise,  as  grateful  myriads  throng, 
Faith's  holy  prayer  and  Freedom's  joyful  song ; 
There  shall  the  flame  that  flashed  from  yonder  ROCK 
Light  up  the  land,  till  nature's  final  shock. 

XIII. 

Yet  while,  by  life's  endearments  crowned, 

To  mark  this  day  we  gather  round, 

And  to  our  nation's  founders  raise 

The  voice  of  gratitude  and  praise, 
Shall  not  one  line  lament  that  lion  race, 
For  us  struck  out  from  sweet  creation's  face  ? 
Alas!  alas  !  for  them  —  those  fated  bands, 
Whose  monarch  tread  was  on  these  broad,  green  lands  ; 
Our  fathers  called  them  savage  —  them,  whose  bread, 
In  the  dark  hour,  those  famished  fathers  fed ; 

We  call  them  savage,  we, 

Who  hail  the  struggling  free, 
Of  every  clime  and  hue ; 

We,  who  would  save 

The  branded  slave, 
And  give  him  liberty  he  never  knew; 

5 


56  CENTENNIAL    ODE. 

We,  who  but  now  have  caught  the  tale 
That  turns  each  listening  tyrant  pale, 
And  blessed  the  winds  and  waves  that  bore 
The  tidings  to  our  kindred  shore  ; 
The  triumph-tidings  pealing  from  that  land 
Where  up  in  arms  insulted  legions  stand ; 

There,  gathering  round  his  bold  compeers, 
Where  He,  our  own,  our  welcomed  One, 
Riper  in  glory  than  in  years, 
Down  from  his  forfeit  throne 
A  craven  monarch  hurled, 
And  spurned  him  forth,  a  proverb  to  the  world  ! 

XIV. 
We  call  them  savage ;  —  O,  be  just ! 

Their  outraged  feelings  scan  ; 
A  voice  comes  forth  —  't  is  from  the  dust  — 

The  savage  was  a  man  ! 
Think  ye  he  loved  not  ?     Who  stood  by, 

And  in  his  toils  took  part  ? 
Woman  was  there  to  bless  his  eye  — 

The  savage  had  a  heart ! 
Think  ye  he  prayed  not  ?     When  on  high 

He  heard  the  thunders  roll, 
What  bade  him  look  beyond  the  sky  ? 

The  savage  had  a  soul ! 


CENTENNIAL   ODE.  57 

XV. 

I  venerate  the  Pilgrim's  cause, 
Yet  for  the  red  man  dare  to  plead  — 
"We  bow  to  Heaven's  recorded  laws, 
He  turned  to  nature  for  a  creed ; 
Beneath  the  pillared  dome, 
We  seek  our  God  in  prayer ; 
Through  boundless  woods  he  loved  to  roam, 
And  the  Great  Spirit  worshipped  there. 
But  one,  one  fellow-throb  with  us  he  felt ; 
To  one  divinity  with  us  he  knelt ; 
Freedom,  the  self-same  freedom  we  adore, 
Bade  him  defend  his  violated  shore. 

He  saw  the  cloud,  ordained  to  grow, 
And  burst  upon  his  hills  in  woe  ; 
He  saw  his  people  withering  by, 
Beneath  the  invader's  evil  eye  ; 
Strange  feet  were  trampling  on  his  fathers'  bones ; 
At  midnight  hour  he  woke  to  gaze 
Upon  his  happy  cabin's  blaze, 
And  listen  to  his  children's  dying  groans. 
He  saw  —  and,  maddening  at  the  sight, 
Gave  his  bold  bosom  to  the  fight ; 
To  tiger  rage  his  soul  was  driven  ; 
Mercy  was  not  —  nor  sought  nor  given ; 


58  CENTENNIAL   ODE. 

The  pale  man  from  his  lands  must  fly ; 
He  would  be  free  —  or  he  would  die. 

XVI. 

And  was  this  savage  ?  say, 
Ye  ancient  few, 
Who  struggled  through 
Young  Freedom's  trial-day  — 
What  first  your  sleeping  wrath  awoke  ? 
On  your  own  shores  war's  larum  broke  ; 
What  turned  to  gall  even  kindred  blood  ? 
Round  your  own  homes  the  oppressor  stood ; 
This  every  warm  affection  chilled, 
This  every  heart  with  vengeance  thrilled, 
And  strengthened  every  hand ; 
From  mound  to  mound, 
The  word  went  round  — 
"  Death  for  our  native  land  ! " 

XVII. 

Ye  mothers,  too,  breathe  ye  no  sigh 
For  them  who  thus  could  dare  to  die  ? 
Are  all  your  own  dark  hours  forgot, 
Of  soul-sick  suffering  here  ? 


CENTENNIAL    ODE.  59 

Your  pangs,  as  from  yon  mountain  spot, 
Death  spoke  in  every  booming  shot, 

That  knelled  upon  your  ear  ? 
How  oft  that  gloomy,  glorious  tale  ye  tell, 
As  round  your  knees  your  children's  children  hang, 
Of  them,  the  gallant  ones,  ye  loved  so  well. 
Who  to  the  conflict  for  their  country  sprang ! 
In  pride,  in  all  the  pride  of  woe, 
Ye  tell  of  them,  the  brave  laid  low, 

Who  for  their  birthplace  bled  ; 

In  pride,  the  pride  of  triumph,  then, 

Ye  tell  of  them,  the  matchless  men, 

From  whom  the  invaders  fled. 

XVIII. 

And  ye,  this  holy  place  who  throng, 
The  annual  theme  to  hear, 
And  bid  the  exulting  song 
Sound  their  great  names  from  year  to  year ; 
Ye,  who  invoke  the  chisel's  breathing  grace, 
In  marble  majesty  their  forms  to  trace  ; 

Ye,  who  the  sleeping  rocks  would  raise, 
To  guard  their  dust  and  speak  their  praise; 
Ye,  who,  should  some  other  band 
With  hostile  foot  defile  the  land, 


60  CENTENNIAL   ODE. 

Feel  that  ye  like  them  would  wake, 
Like  them  the  yoke  of  bondage  break, 
Nor  leave  a  battle-blade  undrawn, 
Though  every  hill  a  sepulchre  should  yawn  — 
Say,  have  not  ye  one  line  for  those, 

One  brother-line  to  spare, 
Who  rose  but  as  your  fathers  rose, 
And  dared  as  ye  would  dare  ? 

XIX. 

Alas !  for  them  —  their  day  is  o'er, 
Their  fires  are  out  from  hill  and  shore  ; 
No  more  for  them  the  wild  deer  bounds  ; 
The  plough  is  on  their  hunting-grounds ; 
The  pale  man's  axe  rings  through  their  woods, 
The  pale  man's  sail  skims  o'er  their  floods, 

Their  pleasant  springs  are  dry  ; 
Their  children  —  look !  by  power  oppressed, 
Beyond  the  mountains  of  the  west, 

Their  children  go  —  to  die. 

XX. 

O  doubly  lost !  Oblivion's  shadows  close 
Around  their  triumphs  and  their  woes. 


CENTENNIAL   ODE.  61 

On  other  realms,  whose  suns  have  set, 

Reflected  radiance  lingers  yet ; 

There  sage  and  bard  have  shed  a  light 

That  never  shall  go  down  in  night ; 

There  time-crowned  columns  stand  on  high, 

To  tell  of  them  who  cannot  die  ; 

Even  we,  who  then  were  nothing,  kneel 
In  homage  there,  and  join  earth's  general  peal. 
But  the  doomed  Indian  leaves  behind  no  trace, 
To  save  his  own,  or  serve  another  race  ; 
With  his  frail  breath  his  power  has  passed  away, 
His  deeds,  his  thoughts,  are  buried  with  his  clay ; 

Nor  lofty  pile,  nor  glowing  page, 

Shall  link  him  to  a  future  age, 

Or  give  him  with  the  past  a  rank ; 
His  heraldry  is  but  a  broken  bow, 
His  history  but  a  tale  of  wrong  and  woe, 

His  very  name  must  be  a  blank. 

XXI. 

Cold,  with  the  beast  he  slew,  he  sleeps ; 

O'er  him  no  filial  spirit  weeps  ; 
No  crowds  throng  round,  no  anthem-notes  ascend, 
To  bless  his  coming  and  embalm  his  end ; 


62  CENTENNIAL   ODE. 

Even  that  he  lived,  is  for  his  conqueror's  tongue  ; 
By  foes  alone  his  death-song  must  be  sung ; 
No  chronicles  but  theirs  shall  tell 

His  mournful  doom  to  future  times ; 
May  these  upon  his  virtues  dwell, 
And  in  his  fate  forget  his  crimes. 

XXII. 

Peace  to  the  mingling  dead  ! 
Beneath  the  turf  we  tread, 

Chief,  Pilgrim,  Patriot,  sleep  — 
All  gone  !     How  changed  !  and  yet  the  same 
As  when  Faith's  herald-bark  first  came 

In  sorrow  o'er  the  deep. 
Still  from  his  noonday  height 
The  sun  looks  down  in  light ; 
Along  the  trackless  realms  of  space 
The  stars  still  run  their  midnight  race  ; 
The  same  green  valleys  smile,  the  same  rough  shore 
Still  echoes  to  the  same  wild  ocean's  roar ;  — 
But  where  the  bristling  night-wolf  sprang 

Upon  his  startled  prey, 
Where  the  fierce  Indian's  war-cry  rang 
Through  many  a  bloody  fray, 


CENTENNIAL    ODE.  63 

And  where  the  stern  old  Pilgrim  prayed 

In  solitude  and  gloom, 
Where  the  bold  Patriot  drew  his  blade, 

And  dared  a  patriot's  doom  — 
Behold  !  in  Liberty's  unclouded  blaze 
We  lift  our  heads,  a  race  of  other  days. 

XXIII. 

All  gone  !     The  wild  beast's  lair  is  trodden  out; 
Proud  temples  stand  in  beauty  there ; 
Our  children  raise  their  merry  shout 
Where  once  the  death-whoop  vexed  the  airj 

The  Pilgrim  —  seek  yon  ancient  place  of  graves, 
Beneath  that  chapel's  holy  shade  ; 
Ask,  where  the  breeze  the  long  grass  waves, 
Who,  who  within  that  spot  are  laid  ;  — 

The  Patriot  —  go,  to  Fame's  proud  mount  repair ; 
The  tardy  pile,  slow  rising  there, 
With  tongueless  eloquence  shall  tell 
Of  them  who  for  their  country  fell. 

XXIV. 

All  gone !     'T  is  ours,  the  goodly  land ; 
Look  round  —  the  heritage  behold  ; 
Go  forth  —  upon  the  mountains  stand, 
Then,  if  ye  can,  be  cold. 


64  CENTENNIAL    ODE. 

See  living  vales  by  living  waters  blessed, 

Their  wealth  see  earth's  dark  caverns  yield, 
See  ocean  roll,  in  glory  dressed, 
For  all  a  treasure,  and  round  all  a  shield. 
Hark  to  the  shouts  of  praise 
Rejoicing  millions  raise ; 
Gaze  on  the  spires  that  rise 
To  point  them  to  the  skies, 
Unfearing  and  unfeared ; 
Then,  if  ye  can,  O  then  forget 
To  whom  ye  owe  the  sacred  debt  — 

The  Pilgrim  race  revered  ! 
The  men  who  set  Faith's  burning  lights 
Upon  these  everlasting  heights, 
To  guide  their  children  through  the  years  of  time ; 
The  men  that  glorious  law  who  taught, 
Unshrinking  liberty  of  thought, 
And  roused  the  nations  with  the  truth  sublime. 

XXV. 

Forget  ?     No,  never  —  ne'er  shall  die 
Those  names  to  memory  dear ; 

I  read  the  promise  in  each  eye 
That  beams  upon  me  here. 


CENTENNIAL    ODE.  65 

Descendants  of  a  twice-recorded  race, 
Long  may  ye  here  your  lofty  lineage  grace ; 

'T  is  not  for  you  home's  tender  tie 

To  rend,  and  brave  the  waste  of  waves ; 

'T  is  not  for  you  to  rouse  and  die, 

Or  yield  and  live  a  line  of  slaves  : 
The  deeds  of  danger  and  of  death  are  done  ; 

Upheld  by  inward  power  alone, 

Unhonored  by  the  world's  loud  tongue, 
'T  is  yours  to  do  unknown, 
And  then  to  die  unsung. 
To  other  days,  to  other  men,  belong 
The  penman's  plaudit  and  the  poet's  song ; 

Enough  for  glory  has  been  wrought ; 

By  you  be  humbler  praises  sought ; 

In  peace  and  truth  life's  journey  run, 
And  keep  unsullied  what  your  fathers  won. 

XXVI. 

Take  then  my  prayer,  ye  dwellers  of  this  spot  — 
Be  yours  a  noiseless  and  a  guiltless  lot. 

I  plead  not  that  ye  bask 
In  the  rank  beams  of  vulgar  fame ; 

To  light  your  steps  I  ask 
A  purer  and  a  holier  flame. 


5  CENTENNIAL   ODE. 

No  bloated  growth  I  supplicate  for  you, 
No  pining  multitude,  no  pampered  few ; 
'T  is  not  alone  to  coffer  gold, 
Nor  spreading  borders  to  behold ; 
'T  is  not  fast  swelling  crowds  to  win, 
The  refuse-ranks  of  want  and  sin ;  — 
This  be  the  kind  decree  : 
Be  ye  by  goodness  crowned, 
Revered,  though  not  renowned; 
Poor,  if  Heaven  will,  but  free  ! 
Free  from  the  tyrants  of  the  hour, 
The  clans  of  wealth,  the  clans  of  power, 
The  coarse,  cold  scorners  of  their  God ; 

Free  from  the  taint  of  sin, 

The  leprosy  that  feeds  within, 

And  free,  in  mercy,  from  the  bigot's  rod. 

XXVII. 

The  sceptre's  might,  the  crosier's  pride, 

Ye  do  not  fear ; 
No  conquest  blade,  in  life-blood  dyed, 

Drops  terror  here  — 
Let  there  not  lurk  a  subtler  snare, 
For  wisdom's  footsteps  to  beware. 


CENTENNIAL    ODE. 

The  shackle  and  the  stake, 

Our  fathers  fled ; 

Ne'er  may  their  children  wake 
A  fouler  wrath,  a  deeper  dread  : 
Ne'er  may  the  craft  that  fears  the  flesh  to  bind 
Lock  its  hard  fetters  on  the  mind ; 

Quenched  be  the  fiercer  flame 

That  kindles  with  a  name ; 
The  Pilgrim's  faith,  the  Pilgrim's  zeal, 
Let  more  than  Pilgrim  kindness  seal ; 
Be  purity  of  life  the  test, 
Leave  to  the  heart,  to  Heaven,  the  rest. 

XXVIII. 

So,  when  our  children  turn  the  page, 
To  ask  what  triumphs  marked  our  age,  — 
What  we  achieved  to  challenge  praise, 
Through  the  long  line  of  future  days,  — 

This  let  them  read,  and  hence  instruction  draw :  - 
"  Here  were  the  many  blessed, 
Here  found  the  virtues  rest, 

Faith  linked  with  love,  and  liberty  with  law; 
Here  Industry  to  comfort  led, 
Her  book  of  light  here  Learning  spread ; 

Here  the  warm  heart  of  youth 
Was  wooed  to  Temperance  and  to  Truth ; 


67 


68  CENTENNIAL    ODE. 

Here  hoary  age  was  found, 
By  wisdom  and  by  reverence  crowned. 

No  great  but  guilty  fame 

Here  kindled  pride,  that  should  have  kindled  shame ; 
THESE  chose  the  better,  happier  part, 
That  poured  its  sunlight  o'er  the  heart ; 
That  crowned  their  homes  with  peace  and  health, 
And  weighed  Heaven's  smile  beyond  earth's  wealth  ; 

Far  from  the  thorny  paths  of  strife 
They  stood,  a  living  lesson  to  their  race, 

Rich  in  the  charities  of  life, 
Man  in  his  strength,  and  Woman  in  her  grace ; 
In  purity  and  love  THEIR  pilgrim  road  they  trod, 
And  when  they  served  their  neighbor,  felt  they  served 
their  God." 

XXIX. 

This  may  not  wake  the  poet's  verse, 
This  souls  of  fire  may  ne'er  rehearse 

In  crowd-delighting  voice ; 
Yet  o'er  the  record  shall  the  patriot  bend, 
His  quiet  praise  the  moralist  shall  lend, 
And  all  the  good  rejoice. 

XXX. 

This  be  our  story,  then,  in  that  far  day, 
When  others  come  their  kindred  debt  to  pay. 


CENTENNIAL    ODE.  69 

In  that  far  day  ?  —  O,  what  shall  be, 
In  this  dominion  of  the  free, 
When  we  and  ours  have  rendered  up  our  trust, 
And  men  unborn  shall  tread  above  our  dust  ? 
0,  what  shall  be  ?  —  He,  He  alone, 

The  dread  response  can  make, 
Who  sitteth  on  the  only  throne 
That  time  shall  never  shake ; 
Before  whose  all-beholding  eyes 
Ages  sweep  on,  and  empires  sink  and  rise. 
Then  let  the  song,  to  Him  begun, 

To  Him  in  reverence  end ; 
Look  down  in  love.  Eternal  One, 

And  Thy  good  cause  defend ! 
Here,  late  and  long,  put  forth  Thy  hand, 
To  guard  and  guide  the  Pilgrim's  land ! 


ODE. 

WRITTEN    FOR     THE    FOURTH     TRIENNIAL    CELEBRATION    OF    THE 
MASSACHUSETTS    CHARITABLE    MECHANIC  ASSOCIATION,  1818. 


WHEN,  from  the  mitred  churchman's  power, 

Pilgrims  sought  a  land  of  rest, 
Here  proudly  rose,  in  blissful  hour, 

Freedom's  empire  in  the  west. 
To  Him  who  saved,  the  God  most  high, 

Sweet  Piety  her  altar  raised ; 
Invention  came,  with  eagle  eye, 

And  Science  smiled  where  savage  war-fires  blazed. 

Here,  where  the  tawny  Indian  roved, 

Tenant  of  a  flowerless  waste, 
A  magic  power  bright  Genius  proved, 

Forests  bowed  to  Art  and  Taste. 
Toil  swung  the  sledge  with  sturdy  hand, 

In  chiseled  grace  fair  domes  arose ; 
Improvement  moved  upon  the  land, 

And  Freedom's  Press  saved  all  from  Freedom's  foes. 


TRIENNIAL   ODE.  71 

Mechanic  skill !  the  tar  by  thee 

Stems  the  wave,  and  mocks  the  gale ; 
By  thee  the  yeoman,  blithe  and  free, 

Plenty  reaps  from  every  vale. 
Earth  vainly  hides  her  caverned  ores ; 

To  thee  the  treasured  hoard  is  given ; 
And  elements  obey  thy  powers, 

And  Science  grasps  the  quivering  flash  of  heaven. 

Nor  yet  alone  in  peaceful  toil 

Genius  here  shall  be  renowned ; 
Should  bold  invasion  tread  the  soil, 

Art's  firm  sons  shall  rally  round. 
Great  Archimedes  on  the  foe 

Drew  burning  vengeance  from  the  sun ; 
And  they,  at  Franklin's  name  who  glow, 

Shall  rouse  at  thine,  immortal  Washington ! 

O,  favored  land !  the  exile's  rest, 

Charity's  long-hallowed  seat ; 
By  science,  worth,  and  valor  blest, 

All  that 's  good  in  thee  shall  meet. 
"  BE  JUST,  AND  FEAR  NOT  "  *  earth  combined ; 

The  scale  and  blade,  the  test  and  doom, 
Thy  sons  shall  bear  to  all  mankind, 

And  clustering  glories  round  their  names  shall  bloom, 

*  Motto  of  the  Society. 


ART. 

AN    ODE  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  SIXTH   TRIENNIAL   FESTIVAL    OF  THE 
MASSACHUSETTS   CHARITABLE   MECHANIC  ASSOCIATION,  1824. 


WHEN,  from  the  sacred  garden  driven, 

Man  fled  before  his  Maker's  wrath, 
An  angel  left  her  place  in  heaven, 

And  crossed  the  wanderer's  sunless  path. 
'T  was  Art !  sweet  Art !  new  radiance  broke 

Where  her  light  foot  flew  o'er  the  ground, 
And  thus  with  seraph  voice  she  spoke  — 

"  The  Curse  a  Blessing  shall  be  found." 

She  led  hirn  through  the  trackless  wild, 

Where  noontide  sunbeam  never  blazed ; 
The  thistle  shrunk,  the  harvest  smiled, 

And  Nature  gladdened  as  she  gazed. 
Earth's  thousand  tribes  of  living  things, 

At  Art's  command,  to  him  are  given ; 
The  village  grows,  the  city  springs, 

And  point  their  spires  of  faith  to  heaven. 


ART.  73 

He  rends  the  oak  —  and  bids  it  ride, 

To  guard  the  shores  its  beauty  graced ; 
He  smites  the  rock  —  upheaved  in  pride, 

See  towers  of  strength  and  domes  of  taste. 
Earth's  teeming  caves  their  wealth  reveal, 

Fire  bears  his  banner  on  the  wave, 
He  bids  the  mortal  poison  heal, 

And  leaps  triumphant  o'er  the  grave. 

He  plucks  the  pearls  that  stud  the  deep, 

Admiring  Beauty's  lap  to  fill; 
He  breaks  the  stubborn  marble's  sleep, 

And  mocks  his  own  Creator's  skill. 
With  thoughts  that  swell  his  glowing  soul, 

He  bids  the  ore  illume  the  page, 
And,  proudly  scorning  Time's  control, 

Commerces  with  an  unborn  age. 

In  fields  of  air  he  writes  his  name, 

And  treads  the  chambers  of  the  sky ; 
He  reads  the  stars,  and  grasps  the  flame 

That  quivers  round  the  Throne  on  high. 
In  war  renowned,  in  peace  sublime, 

He  moves  in  greatness  and  in  grace ; 
His  power,  subduing  space  and  time, 

Links  realm  to  realm,  and  race  to  race. 


FIFTY   YEARS   AGO. 

FOR  THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY,  1826. 


FIFTY  years  have  rolled  away, 
Since  that  high,  heroic  day, 
When  our  fathers,  in  the  fray, 

Struck  the  conquering  blow ! 
Praise  to  them  —  the  bold  who  spoke;  — 
Praise  to  them  —  the  brave  who  broke 
Stem  oppression's  galling  yoke, 

FIFTY  YEARS  AGO ! 

Pour  the  wine  of  sacrifice, 

Let  the  grateful  anthem  rise,  — 

Shall  we  e'er  resign  the  prize  ?  — 

Never  —  never  —  no ! 
Hearts  and  hands  shall  guard  those  rights, 
Bought  on  Freedom's  battle  heights, 
Where  he  fixed  his  signal  lights, 

FIFTY  YEARS  AGO ! 


FIFTY   YEARS   AGO.  75 

Swear  it! — by  the  mighty  dead, — 
Those  who  counselled,  those  who  led ;  — 
By  the  blood  your  fathers  shed, 

By  your  mothers'  woe  ;  — 
Swear  it !  —  by  the  living  few,  — 
Those  whose  breasts  were  scarred  for  you, 
When  to  freedom's  ranks  they  flew, 

FIFTY  YEARS  AGO! 

By  the  joys  that  cluster  round, 
By  our  vales  with  plenty  crowned, 
By  our  hill-tops  —  holy  ground, 

Rescued  from  the  foe, — 
Where  of  old  the  Indian  strayed, 
Where  of  old  the  Pilgrim  prayed, 
Where  the  patriot  drew  his  blade, 

FIFTY  YEARS  AGO ! 

Should  again  the  war-trump  peal, 
There  shall  Indian  firmness  seal 
Pilgrim  faith  and  patriot  zeal, 

Prompt  to  strike  the  blow ;  — 
There  shall  valor's  work  be  done ; 
Like  the  sire  shall  be  the  son. 
Where  the  fight  was  waged  and  won, 

FIFTY  YEARS  AGO ! 


ODE. 

FOR    THE    FOURTH   OF   JULY,    1827. 

To  the  Sages  who  spoke  —  to  the  Heroes  who  bled  — 
To  the  day,  and  the  deed  —  strike  the  harp-strings  of 

glory ! 

Let  the  song  of  the  ransomed  remember  the  dead, 
And  the  tongue  of  the  eloquent  hallow  the  story. 
O'er  the  bones  of  the  bold 
Be  that  story  long  told, 

And  on  Fame's  golden  tablets  their  triumphs  enrolled, 
Who  on  Freedom's  green  hills  Freedom's  banner  unfurled, 
And  the  beacon-fire  raised  that  gave  light  to  the  world. 

They  are  gone  —  mighty  men !  —  and  they  sleep  in  their 

fame ; 

Shall  we  ever  forget  them  ? —  0  never !  —  no,  never !  — 
Let  our  sons  learn  from  us  to  embalm  each  great  name, 
And   the   anthem  send  down  —  "Independence   for 
ever."^ 

*The  dying  words  of  the  venerable  John  Adams,  whose  decease  was 
on  July  4. 


ODE.  77 

Wake,  wake,  heart  and  tongue ! 
Keep  the  theme  ever  young  — 

Let  their  deeds  through  the  long  line  of  ages  be  sung, 
Who  on  Freedom's  green  hills  Freedom's  banner  unfurled, 
And  the  beacon-fire  raised  that  gave  light  to  the  world. 


SONG. 

FOR   A  FESTIVAL   IN  FANEUIL  HALL.  —  Auld  Lang  Syne. 


FILL,  brothers,  fill !  —  the  brightest  pour- 
To  them,  the  great  and  good, 

Who  thronged  this  hall,  in  days  of  yore, 
And  firm  for  Freedom  stood  — 
And  firm,  &c. 

Not  then  the  festive  board  was  spread, 
Those  gallant  men  to  cheer ; 

Not  then  its  charm  the  wine-cup  shed, 
Like  that  which  sparkles  here  — 
Like  that,  &c. 

From  them  went  up  no  merry  song, 
When  they  this  temple  filled ; 

But  bold  "  rebellion  "  fired  each  tongue, 
And  "  war"  each  bosom  thrilled — 
And  war,  &c. 


SONG. 

T  was  for  a  prouder  deed  they  met, 
That  should  their  names  adorn; 

They  came  a  glorious  feast  to  set 
For  ages  yet  unborn  — 
For  ages,  &c. 

And  nobly  through  their  work  they  went, 

In  wisdom  and  in  power, 
And  down  to  us  the  blessing  sent 

That  crowns  this  happy  hour  — 
That  crowns,  &c. 

Then,  brothers,  fill !  —  the  brightest  pour- 
To  them,  the  great  and  good, 

Who  round  this  hall,  in  days  of  yore, 
For  us  and  Freedom  stood  — 
For  us,  &c. 


79 


SONG. 

WRITTEN    FOR   THE    PARTING    DINNER    GIVEN    TO  LAFAYETTE    BY 

THE    MASSACHUSETTS  CHARITABLE  MECHANIC  ASSOCIATION. 

Scots  who,  hoe. 


WAKE  a  deed  of  other  days ; 
Swell  the  song  of  lofty  praise ; 
Gratitude's  bright  goblet  raise,  — 

Pledge  to  LAFAYETTE  !  — 
Him,  who  left  his  own  fair  land, 
By  your  fathers'  sides  to  stand, 
When  Oppression's  guilty  brand 

In  their  blood  was  wet :  — 

Him,  who  shared  their  hour  of  woe ; 
Him,  who  dealt  with  them  each  blow, 
Till  young  Freedom's  beaten  foe 

Turned  his  back  and  fled. 
Lo  !  again  behold  him  here  ! 
He,  who  came  the  sires  to  cheer, 
Joins  their  sons  the  pile  to  rear 

O'er  the  mighty  dead. 


SONG.  81 


That  gray  pile  shall  melt  away, 
Tomb  and  tablet  shall  decay, 
Yet  shall  glory's  deed  and  day 

Never  set  in  night. 
Where  your  martyred  heroes  sleep, 
Children's  children  long  shall  weep ; 
There  shall  pilgrim  warriors  keep 

Vigils,  ever  bright. 

Sons  of  Art !  the  table  throng ;  — 
Swell  your  glad  and  grateful  song ; 
Let  its  echoes,  loud  and  long, 
Up  to  Heaven  ascend  ! 
Never  may  your  hearts  forget 

Freeman's  duty  —  freeman's  debt : 

•• 
Fill  the  cup  to  LAFAYETTE  ;  — 

Pled|ejyour  fathers'  friend ! 


ODE. 

FOR   THE    ANNIVERSARY    FESTIVAL    OF    THE    WASHINGTON    LIGHT 

INFANTRY.  — Adams  and  Liberty. 


THE  bugle  is  hushed,  and  the  war-blade  is  sheathed, 
Whose  flash  in  the  sunbeam  to  triumph  directed ; 
The  olive's  green  branch  with  the  laurel  is  wreathed, 
And  Content  tills  the  valley  that  Courage  protected. 
Go  on,  lovely  Peace, 
Bid  the  war-tempest  cease, 
Till  the  isles  of  the  ocean  thy  kingdom  increase, 
And  the  ends  of  the  earth  swell  thy  chorus  sublime  — 
"  Sleep,  red-armed  Destroyer,  the  slumber  of  Time  !  " 

Round  the  festival  board  with  full  hearts  we  unite, 

And  pour  to  our  fathers  Fame's  purest  libation  ;  — 
The  brave  ones  who  grappled  the  foe  in  the  fight, 

The  bold  ones  who  spoke  and  gave  name  to  a  nation .' 
To  the  great  and  the  good, 
Who  for  Liberty  stood, 

And  traced  her  proud  charter  in  letters  of  blood  ;  — 
Then  raised  their  glad  notes  in  the  chorus  sublime  — 
"  Sleep,  red-armed  Destroyer,  the  slumber  of  Time  !  " 


ODE.  83 

0  Washington  !  dearest  and  best  of  our  race ! 

Thy  deeds  through  the  night-cloud  of  ages  shall  lighten! 
Thy  name  on  his  banner  the  soldier  shall  trace, 

To  hallow  his  death,  or  his  triumph  to  brighten  !  — 
Nor  thee,  Lafayette ! 
Shall  our  anthem  forget, 

Whose  arm  hurled  the  bolt  where  the  battle-clouds  met ; 
Then  who  joined  with  our  sires  in  the  chorus  sublime  — 
"  Sleep,  red-armed  Destroyer,  the  slumber  of  Time  ! " 

Now  the  bumper-pledge  drain  —  for  ourselves  let  it  flow ! 
May  no  arm  the  bright  links  of  our  brotherhood  sever ; 
With  a  heart  for  each  friend,  and  a  blade  for  each  foe, 
Front  face !  to  the  board  and  the  battle  forever ! 
In  mirth  and  in  might, 
Fellow-soldiers,  unite  — 

Hand  to  hand  at  the  feast,  hand  to  hand  in  the  fight ! 
In  freedom  and  peace  swell  the  chorus  sublime  — 
"  Sleep,  Spoiler  of  nations,  the  slumber  of  Time  ! " 


PRIZE    PROLOGUE. 

RECITED   AT   THE   OPENING  OF  THE   PARK  THEATRE,  NEW  YORK, 
1821. 


WHEN  mitred  Zeal,  in  wild,  unholy  days, 
Bared  his  red  arm,  and  bade  the  fagot  blaze, 
Our  patriot  sires  the  pilgrim  sail  unfurled, 
And  Freedom  pointed  to  a  rival  world. 

Where  prowled  the  wolf,  and  where  the  hunter  roved, 
Faith  raised  her  altars  to  the  God  she  loved ; 
Toil,  linked  with  Art,  explored  each  savage  wild, 
The  lofty  forest  bowed,  the  desert  smiled  ; 
The  startled  Indian  o'er  the  mountains  flew, 
The  wigwam  vanished,  and  the  village  grew ; 
Taste  reared  her  domes,  fair  Science  spread  her  page, 
And  Wit  and  Genius  gathered  round  the  Stage ! 

The  Stage  !  where  Fancy  sits,  creative  queen, 
And  waves  her  sceptre  o'er  life's  mimic  scene ; 
Where  young-eyed  Wonder  comes  to  feast  his  sight, 
And  quaff  instruction  while  he  drinks  delight.  — 


PRIZE    PROLOGUE.  85 

The  Stage  !  —  that  threads  each  labyrinth  of  the  soul, 
Wakes  laughter's  peal,  and  bids  the  tear-drop  roll; 
That  hoots  at  Folly,  mocks  proud  Fashion's  slave, 
Uncloaks  the  hypocrite,  and  brands  the  knave. 

The  child  of  Genius,  catering  for  the  Stage, 
Rifles  the  wealth  of  every  clime  and  age. 
He  speaks !  the  sepulchre  resigns  its  prey, 
And  crimson  life  runs  through  the  sleeping  clay. 
The  wave,  the  gibbet,  and  the  battle-field, 
At  his  command,  their  festering  tenants  yield. 
Pale,  bleeding  Love  comes  weeping  from  the  tomb, 
That  kindred  softness  may  bewail  her  doom  ; 
Murder's  dry  bones,  reclothed,  desert  the  dust, 
That  after  times  may  own  his  sentence  just ; 
Forgotten  Wisdom,  freed  from  death's  embrace, 
Reads  awful  lessons  to  another  race ; 
And  the  mad  tyrant  of  some  ancient  shore 
Here  warns  a  world  that  he  can  curse  no  more. 

May  this  fair  dome,  in  classic  beauty  reared, 
By  Worth  be  honored,  and  by  Vice  be  feared ; 
May  chastened  Wit  here  bend  to  Virtue's  cause, 
Reflect  her  image,  and  repeat  her  laws  ; 
And  Guilt,  that  slumbers  o'er  the  sacred  page, 
Hate  his  own  likeness,  shadowed  from  the  Stage ! 


86  PRIZE    PROLOGUE. 

Here  let  the  Guardian  of  the  Drama  sit, 
In  righteous  judgment  o'er  the  realms  of  wit. 
Not  his  the  shame,  with  servile  pen  to  wait 
On  private  friendship,  or  on  private  hate ; 
To  flatter  fools,  or  Satire's  javelin  dart, 
Tipped  with  a  lie,  at  proud  Ambition's  heart : 
His  be  the  nobler  task  to  herald  forth 
Young,  blushing  Merit,  and  neglected  Worth  ; 
To  brand  the  page  where  Goodness  finds  a  sneer, 
And  lash  the  wretch  that  breathes  the  treason  here  ! 

Here  shall  bright  Genius  wing  his  eagle  flight, 
Rich  dew-drops  shaking  from  his  plumes  of  light, 
Till  high  in  mental  worlds,  from  vulgar  ken 
He  soars,  the  wonder  and  the  pride  of  men. 
Cold  Censure  here  to  decent  Mirth  shall  bow, 
And  Bigotry  unbend  his  monkish  brow. 
Here  Toil  shall  pause,  his  ponderous  sledge  thrown  by, 
And  Beauty  bless  each  strain  with  melting  eye  ; 
Grief,  too,  in  fiction  lost,  shall  cease  to  weep, 
And  all  the  world's  rude  cares  be  laid  to  sleep. 
Each  polished  scene  shall  Taste  and  Truth  approve, 
And  the  Stage  triumph  in  the  people's  love. 


PRIZE    PROLOGUE. 

RECITED    AT    THE    OPENING    OF    THE   NEW    PHILADELPHIA 
THEATRE,     1>22. 


WHEN  Learning  slumbered  in  the  convent's  shade, 
And  holy  craft  the  groping  nations  swayed, 
By  dulness  banned,  the  Muses  wandered  long, 
Each  lyre  neglected,  and  forgot  each  song ; 
Till  Heaven's  bright  halo  wreathed  the  Drama's  dome, 
And  great  Apollo  called  the  pilgrims  home. 
Then  their  glad  harps,  that  charmed  old  Greece,  they 

swept, 

Their  altars  thronged,  and  Joy's  high  Sabbath  kept. 
Young  Genius  there  his  glorious  banners  reared, 
To  float  forever  loved,  forever  feared. 
The  cowl's  device,  the  cloister's  legend  known, 
Old  Superstition  tumbled  from  his  throne  ; 
Back  to  his  cell  the  king  of  gloom  retired, 
The  buskin  triumphed,  and  the  world  admired  ! 


88  PRIZE    PROLOGUE. 

Since  that  proud  hour,  through  each  unfettered  age, 
The  sons  of  light  have  clustered  round  the  Stage. 
From  Fiction's  realms  her  richest  spoils  they  bring, 
And  Pleasure's  walls  with  Rapture's  echoes  ring. 
Here  hermit  Wisdom  lays  his  mantle  down, 
To  win  with  smiles  the  heart  that  fears  his  frown ; 
In  Mirth's  gay  robe  he  talks  to  wondering  youth, 
And  Grandeur  listens  to  the  stranger,  Truth. 
Beauty,  with  bounding  heart  and  tingling  ear, 
Melts  at  the  tale  to  Love  and  Feeling  dear. 
Their  sacred  bowers  the  sons  of  Learning  quit, 
To  rove  with  Fancy,  and  to  feast  with  Wit. 
All  come  to  gaze,  the  valiant  and  the  vain, 
Virtue's  bright  troop,  and  Fashion's  glittering  train ; 
Here  Labor  rests,  pale  Grief  forgets  her  woe, 
And  Vice,  that  prints  his  slime  on  all  below, 
Even  Vice  looks  on  !  —  For  this  the  Stage  was  reared, 
To  scourge  the  fiend,  so  scorned  and  yet  so  feared. 
The  halls  of  judgment,  as  the  moral  school, 
His  foot  defiles,  the  bronzed  and  reckless  fool ; 
God's  lovely  temple  shall  behold  him  there, 
With  eye  upturned,  and  aspect  false  as  fair ; 
Even  at  the  altar's  very  horns  he  stands, 
And  breaks  and  blesses  with  polluted  hands. 


PRIZE    PROLOGUE.  89 

Then  hither  let  the  unblushing-  villain  roam ; 
Satire  shall  knot  its  whip  and  strike  it  home. 
The  Stage  one  groan,  from  his  dark  soul  shall  draw, 
That  mocks  religion,  and  that  laughs  at  law ! 

To  grace  the  Stage,  the  bard's  careering  mind 
Seeks  other  worlds,  and  leaves  his  own  behind : 
He  lures  from  air  its  bright,  unprisoned  forms, 
Breaks  through  the  tomb,  and  Death's  dull  region  storms. 
O'er  ruined  realms  he  pours  creative  day, 
And  slumbering  kings  his  mighty  voice  obey. 
From  its  damp  shroud  the  long-laid  spirit  walks, 
And  round  the  murderer's  bed  in  vengeance  stalks. 
Poor  maniac  Beauty  brings  her  cypress  wreath, 
Her  smile  a  moonbeam  o'er  a  blasted  heath  ; 
Round  some  cold   grave  she  comes,  sweet  flowers  to 

strew, 

And,  lost  to  Reason,  still  to  Love  is  true. 
Hate  shuts  his  soul  when  dove-eyed  Mercy  pleads  ; 
Power  lifts  the  axe,  and  Truth's  bold  servant  bleeds ; 
Remorse  drops  anguish  from  his  burning  eyes, 
Feels  hell's  eternal  worm,  and,  shuddering,  dies ; 
War's  trophied  minion,  too,  forsakes  the  dust, 
Grasps  his  worn  shield,  and  waves  his  sword  of  rust; 


90 


PRIZE    PROLOGUE. 


Springs  to  the  slaughter  at  the  trumpet's  call, 
Again  to  conquer,  or  again  to  fall. 

With  heads  to  censure,  yet  with  souls  to  feel, 
Friends  of  the  Stage  !  receive  our  frank  appeal. 
No  suppliant  lay  we  frame  ;  acquit  your  trust ; 
The  Drama  guard  ;  be  gentle,  but  be  just ! 
Within  her  courts,  uribribed,  unslumbering,  stand : 
Scourge  lawless  Wit,  and  leaden  Dulness  brand ; 
Lash  pert  Pretence,  but  bashful  Merit  spare, 
His  firstlings  hail,  and  speak  the  trembler  fair ; 
Yet  shall  he  cast  his  cloud,  and  proudly  claim 
The  loftiest  station  and  the  brightest  fame. 
So  from  his  perch,  through  seas  of  golden  light, 
Our  mountain  eagle  takes  his  glorious  flight ; 
To  heaven  the  monarch-bird  exulting  springs, 
And  shakes  the  niglit-fog  from  his  mighty  wings. 
Bards  all  our  own  shall  yet  enchant  their  age, 
And  pour  redeeming  splendor  o'er  the  Stage. 
For  them,  for  you,  Truth  hoards  a  nobler  theme 
Than  ever  blessed  young  Fancy's  sweetest  dream. 
Bold  hearts  shall  kindle,  and  bright  eyes  shall  gaze, 
When  Genius  wakes  the  tale  of  other  days, 
Sheds  life's  own  lustre  o'er  each  holy  deed, 
Of  Him  who  planted,  and  of  Him  who  freed. 


PRIZE    PROLOGUE.  91 

And  now,  fair  pile,  thou  chaste  and  glorious  shrine, 
Our  fondest  wish,  our  warmest  smile,  be  thine  ; 
The  home  of  Genius  and  the  court  of  Taste, 
In  beauty  raised,  be  thou  by  beauty  graced. 
Within  thy  walls  may  Wit's  adorers  throng, 
To  drink  the  magic  of  the  poet's  song ; 
Within  thy  walls  may  youth  and  goodness  draw 
From  every  scene  a  lecture  or  a  law. 
So  bright  the  fane,  be  priest  and  offering  pure, 
And  friends  shall  bless,  and  bigot  foes  endure  ; 
Long,  long  be  spared  to  echo  truths  sublime, 
And  lift  thy  pillars  through  the  storms  of  Time. 


PRIZE    ADDRESS. 

SPOKEN    AT    THE    OPENING   OF   THE   SALEM    THEATRE,    1828. 

To  call  past  ages  from  the  sleep  of  time, 
To  rouse  the  dwellers  of  each  voiceless  clime, 
And  bid  them  stand  as  once  on  Earth  they  stood, 
To  shake  the  guilty,  and  to  charm  the  good ;  — 

To  catch  the  wonders  of  the  present  hour, 
New  grace  to  fiction  give,  to  truth  new  power, 
With  mirth  to  cheer,  with  grief  to  melt  the  soul, 
And  hold  each  passion  in  sublime  control ;  — 

For  these  the  Drama  rose  in  ancient  days, 
And  taught  her  bards  undying  strains  to  raise  ; 
Bade  them  unlock  the  treasures  of  the  mind, 
And  spread  a  new  creation  to  mankind. 

'T  was  glorious  all !  the  Muses  blessed  the  hour, 
And  poured  their  sweetest  songs  in  dome  and  bower ; 
But  night  at  length  "came  down"  —  the  night  of  doom, 
That  wrapped  Earth's  brightest  realm  in  starless  gloom. 


PRIZE    ADDRESS.  93 

Round  "Wisdom's  haunts  the  raven  shadows  swept, 
Art's  lovely  daughters  veiled  their  heads,  and  wept ; 
From  their  cold  groves  the  Drama's  minstrels  fled, 
And  dulness  brooded  o'er  the  living  dead. 

So  tuneless  ages  rolled  —  when,  lo  !  once  more 
Redeeming  Genius  sought  a  happier  shore. 
Like  Mercy's  dove  for  one  green  spot  he  flew, 
Nor  paused  till  Ocean's  empress  caught  his  view ; 
There  his  bold  eye  beheld  the  promised  rest, 
And  Shakspeare's  Albion  wooed  him  to  her  breast. 

Then  sang  The  Bard !  in  greatness  and  in  grace, 
The  matchless  one  —  the  anointed  of  his  race. 
At  his  command  once  more  the  Drama  rose, 
To  shield  fair  Virtue,  and  to  shame  her  foes. 
Time  bowed  before  him,  Death  resigned  his  trust, 
Kingdoms  came  back,  and  monarchs  left  the  dust : 
All,  at  his  bidding,  burst  Oblivion's  grave, 
To  warn,  to  win,  to  chasten,  and  to  save. 

Proud  was  the  lyre  beneath  its  master's  hand, 
And  rapt  the  listeners  of  our  father-land. 
Soon  from  the  Old  the  New  World  caught  the  strain, 
And  hailed  on  Freedom's  shores  the  Drama's  reign  j 


94  PRIZE    ADDRESS. 

From  spot  to  spot  the  inspiration  flew, 

And  reared  at  last  this  vaulted  dome  —  for  you  ! 

For  you,  ye  glad-eyed  throngs,  who  cluster  round 
Where  a  new  home  the  Drama's  sons  have  found,  — 
For  you,  for  you  and  yours,  our  fane  is  dressed  — 
By  you  and  yours,  0  may  our  rites  be  blessed ! 
Pure  be  the  verse  that  lingers  on  each  tongue, 
Meet  for  the  wise,  the  beauteous  and  the  young ; 
So  parent  love  shall  smile  upon  the  place, 
And  gather  here  the  fond  ones  of  his  race  ; 
So  all,  in  pleasure  lapped,  or  lost  in  woe, 
Shall  gaze  unfearing,  and  untainted  go. 

Come,  then,  to  us  and  to  yourselves  be  just, 
And  lid  the  Stage  fulfil  its  glorious  trust. 
To  this  fair  temple  as  your  feet  ye  turn, 
Let  no  strange  fire  to  shame  its  altar  burn : 
On  you  the  cherub  voice  of  goodness  calls  ; 
Rise  up  her  champions,  and  protect  these  walls ! 
So  shall  their  echoes  wake  and  warm  each  heart, 
All  ill  subdue,  and  all  that 's  good  impart ;  — 
So  shall  they  stand,  to  holy  Virtue  dear, 
Above  all  hatred,  and  above  all  fear. 


PRIZE   ADDRESS. 

RECITED   AT   THE    OPENING   OF   THE   PHILADELPHIA    THEATRE 
1823. 


IT  came  from  Heaven !  the  realms  of  time  to  tread, 
And  summon  forth  the  long-forgotten  dead ; 
Their  deeds  of  guilt  and  goodness  to  unfold, 
The  garnered  glories  of  the  days  of  old. 

It  came  from  Heaven !  to  soar  where  Fancy  reigns, 
And  rouse  the  phantoms  of  her  bright  domains  ; 
Their  wildest  haunts,  their  loftiest  heights  explore, 
And  lead  man  on,  to  wonder  and  adore. 

Genius !  these  gifts  are  thine ;  't  is  thine,  sweet  power 
With  these  to  soothe  and  sway  life's  shifting  hour ; 
To  nerve  the  soul,  to  wake  young  Virtue's  glow, 
And  bid  the  tears  of  grief  and  rapture  flow ; 
'T  is  thine,  with  these,  to  rule  each  clime  and  age, 
Mankind  thy  subjects,  and  thy  throne  the  Stage  ! 


96  PHILADELPHIA   ADDRESS. 

The  pencil's  boast,  the  chisel's  skill,  decay, 
And  Wisdom's  noblest  record  fades  away ; 
But  here,  untouched  by  Time's  devouring  tooth, 
The  pictured  group  puts  on  immortal  youth ; 
Here  the  bold  deed,  that  in  the  marble  spoke, 
Again  revives,  new  plaudits  to  provoke ; 
And  the  proud  truth,  that  graced  the  mouldering  page, 
Still  pleads  triumphant,  echoed  from  the  Stage. 

Here  gathering  round  in  long-departed  days, 
Earth's  master  minstrels  poured  their  deathless  lays ; 
Descending  down,  through  each  descending  race, 
Still  came  the  gifted  to  adorn  the  place ; 
"With  Love  to  soften,  and  with  Wit  to  charm, 
To  mock  with  Folly,  and  with  Guilt  alarm  ; 
While  o'er  each  scene,  to  sacred  feeling  dear, 
Taste  smiled  applause,  and  Beauty  dropped  a  tear. 

Long,  long  for  these  may  this  fair  temple  stand, 
The  pride  and  promise  of  our  happier  land. 
Our  happier  land  !  —  forever  live  that  claim 
On  Virtue's  rolls,  as  in  the  blast  -of  Fame ; 
So  rival  shores,  while,  saddening,  they  behold 
Our  young  orb  rising  to  eclipse  the  old, 
May  with  our  greatness  find  our  goodness  page, 
To  mark  indeed  a  new,  a  better  a"-e. 


PHILADELPHIA   ADDRESS.  97 

Within  these  walls,  in  some  inspiring  day, 
May  native  bards  our  native  deeds  portray. 
Shall  foreign  legends  still  go  brightening  down, 
And  cold  Oblivion's  night-cloud  veil  our  own  ? 
Look  round  the  spot,  to  faith  and  firmness  dear ; 
Finds  no  rapt  spirit  fit  incitement  here  ? 
Here,  where  the  Indian  roved  in  nature's  pride, 
And  built  his  fires,  and  loved,  and  warred,  and  died  ? 
Here,  where  his  holy  fane  the  pilgrim  reared, 
And  gave  an  empire  to  the  God  he  feared  ? 
Here,  for  that  empire  where  the  patriot  bled  ? 
Here,  where  the  foul  invader  turned  and  fled  ? 
These  are  the  themes  to  stir  your  rising  youth, 
Their  fathers'  valor,  and  their  fathers'  truth ; 
These  be  the  themes  to  grace  this  swelling  dome ; 
In  Pleasure's  courts  let  Freedom  find  a  home  ; 
While  Virtue  sits  all  radiant  in  her  light, 
The  guiding  priestess  of  each  glorious  rite. 

And  0,  when  ye,  who  now  enraptured  gaze, 
Shall  yield  to  other  throngs  and  other  days, 
Still  may  this  altar  beam  its  purest  fires, 
To  charm  the  children  as  they  charmed  the  sires  ! 


PRIZE    ADDRESS. 

RECITED   AT   THE  OPENING   OF  THE   PORTSMOUTH  THEATRE,  1830. 

'T  WAS  Fancy's  hour  —  uplifted  on  the  blast, 
O'er  lands  and  seas  my  chartered  spirit  passed, 
Till,  all  in  Eden's  ancient  beauty  dressed, 
A  fair,  strange  clime  my  wondering  vision  blessed. 

There,  as  I  gazed,  in  nature's  strength  and  grace 
Roamed  the  red  warriors  of  a  nameless  race ; 
Swift  flew  their  barks  along  the  rocky  shore, 
Bright  blazed  their  fires,  loud  rose  their  battle  roar ; 
Rude  love  and  ruder  hate  controlled  the  spot, 
Tribes  conquered  tribes,  and  were  in  turn  forgot. 

Years  seemed  to  roll  —  then  all  went  fading  by, 
And  where  they  stood,  beneath  the  same  blue  sky, 
Lo  !  a  new  race  —  an  iron-hearted  band, 
The  banished  wanderers  from  a  distant  land ; 
These  sweet  Religion's  sacred  flag  unfurled, 
And  bade  it  float  to  bless  another  world. 


PORTSMOUTH   ADDRESS.  99 

Soon  from  each  startled  vale  the  axe  rang  loud, 
And  the  old  monarchs  of  the  forest  bowed ; 
Art  built  her  domes  in  Nature's  silent  bowers, 
And  peace  and  gladness  crowned  the  Pilgrim's  hours. 

So  ages  passed — till,  at  Oppression's  call, 
Bold  legions  thronged,  their  brethren  to  enthrall; 
Then  from  each  cliff  the  cry  to  battle  rang, 
Then  from  each  hill  to  arms  the  patriot  sprang ; 
Then  shouts  and  shrieks  rolled  mingling  to  the  sky, 
As  wronged  and  wrongers  met,  and  met  to  die. 

I  looked  again  —  the  avenging  deed  was  done ; 
Freedom's  undaunted  host  the  fight  had  won ; 
War's  withering  demon  stayed  his  bloody  hand, 
And  one  glad  anthem  shook  the  ransomed  land. 

Behold  the  vision's  bright  fulfilment  here ! 
This  is  the  clime  to  Faith  and  Valor  dear ; 
Among  these  hills  the  red  man's  arrow  flew, 
Along  these  shores  he  steered  his  light  canoe  ; 
These  are  the  vales  the  exiled  Christian  trod, 
Here  rose  his  altar  to  the  living  God ; 
'T  was  here,  for  you,  his  blood  the  patriot  gave ; 
Here  Freedom  found  a  home,  and  Freedom's  foes  a  grave. 


100  PORTSMOUTH   ADDRESS. 

Here,  too,  as  bland  Refinement  marked  the  age, 
Immortal  Genius  spoke,  and  reared  the  Stage. 
See,  where,  to  work  their  master's  high  behest, 
His  vassals  throng,  and  thrill  the  human  breast;  — 
Love,  cherub  watcher  of  the  murmuring  shade ; 
Dark,  scowling  Hate  ;  Ambition,  with  his  blade ; 
Envy,  coarse  churl ;  Joy,  chanting  to  the  gale ; 
Pale  Horror,  quaking  at  his  own  wild  tale ; 
Hope,  that  in  every  cloud  a  rainbow  sees, 
And  coward  Fear,  that  starts  at  every  breeze  ; 
Euthless  Revenge  ;  Remorse,  with  smothered  sigh ; 
Anger  uncurbed,  and  Grief,  with  streaming  eye  ;  — 
All,  all  bring  offerings  at  their  lord's  command, 
To  cheer,  and  charm,  and  humanize  the  land. 

O,  ne'er  this  place  while  youth  and  beauty  tread, 
May  Shame  demand  one  sacred  tear  they  shed ; 
Scorn  track  the  footpath  of  each  traitor  here, 
Who  dares  defile  what  Genius  dared  to  rear. 
Their  kindred  powers  let  Wit  and  Mirth  unite, 
To  wake  and  warm  the  hearts  they  would  delight. 
Thus  shall  the  good  arid  wise  approve  the  strain, 
And  all  the  graces  bless  the  Drama's  reign. 


DEDICATION   HYMN. 


GOD  of  wisdom,  God  of  might, 

Father !  dearest  name  of  all, 
Bow  thy  throne  and  bless  our  rite ; 

'T  is  thy  children  on  Thee  call. 
Glorious  ONE  !  look  down  from  heaven, 

Warm  each  heart  and  wake  each  vow ; 
Unto  Thee  this  house  is  given ; 

With  thy  presence  fill  it  now. 

Fill  it  now !  on  every  soul 

Shed  the  incense  of  thy  grace, 
While  our  anthem-echoes  roll 

Round  the  consecrated  place ; 
While  thy  holy  page  we  read, 

While  the  prayers  Thou  lov'st  ascend, 
While  thy  cause  thy  servants  plead,  — 

Fill  this  house,  our  God,  our  friend. 


102  DEDICATION    HYMN. 

Fill  it  now  — O,  fill  it  long! 

So,  wnen  death  shall  call  us  home, 
Still  to  Thee,  in  many  a  throng, 

May  our  children's  children  come. 
Bless  them,  Father,  long  and  late, 

Blot  their  sins,  their  sorrows  dry ; 
Make  this  place  to  them  the  gate 

Leading  to  thy  courts  on  high. 

There,  when  time  shall  be  no  more, 

When  the  feuds  of  earth  are  past, 
May  the  tribes  of  every  shore 

Congregate  in  peace  at  last ! 
Then  to  Thee,  thou  ONE  all-wise, 

Shall  the  gathered  millions  sing, 
Till  the  arches  of  the  skies 

With  their  hallelujahs  ring. 


ORDINATION   HYMN. 


OUR  fathers,  Lord,  to  seek  a  spot, 
Where  they  might  kneel  to  thee, 

Their  own  fair  heritage  forgot, 
And  braved  an  unknown  sea 

Here  found  their  pilgrim  souls  repose, 
Where  long  the  heathen  roved, 

And  here  their  humble  anthems  rose, 
To  bless  the  Power  they  loved. 

They  sleep  in  dust  —  but  where  they  trod, 

A  feeble,  fainting  band, 
Glad  millions  catch  the  strain,  0  God, 

And  sound  it  through  the  land. 

Come,  Lord,  to  this  new  temple  now, 

Thy  servant  here  behold ; 
In  thy  dread  name  he  breathes  his  vow, 

To  guard  this  little  fold. 


104  ORDINATION    HYMN. 

Long  may  he  stand  thy  herald  here, 

Thy  lessons  to  impart ; 
From  every  eye  to  wipe  the  tear, 

The  stain  from  every  heart ;  — 

In  paths  of  peace  to  bid  them  tread, 
Where  no  vain  feuds  arise, 

And  from  his  life  a  lustre  shed, 
To  light  them  to  the  skies. 

So,  when  the  last,  long  night  shall  go, 
The  last,  glad  morning  break, 

When  all  that  walked  in  truth  below 
In  joy  above  shall  wake, — 

There  may  thy  servant,  Lord,  be  found, 

The  chosen  of  thy  Son, 
And  hear  from  him  the  glorious  sound, 

"  Well  done,  beloved  one ! " 


INSTALLATION    HYMN. 


THOU  lofty  ONE  !  whose  name  is  Love, 
Whose  praise  all  nations  swell,  — 

Bend  from  thy  glorious  throne  above, 
And  in  this  temple  dwell. 

Father,  't  is  thine  —  this  sacred  hour, 

Thine  let  its  spirit  be  ; 
And  while  each  tongue  proclaims  thy  power, 

O  turn  each  heart  to  thee. 

Bless  him,  thy  servant  —  bid  him  here 

Thy  faithful  shepherd  stand, 
To  fold  for  thee,  through  many  a  year, 

This  little,  gathering  band. 

Bless  him  with  grace  their  steps  to  lead, 

Where  no  dark  tests  divide, 
To  make  the  name  of  CHRIST  their  creed, 

His  life  and  law  their  guide. 


106  INSTALLATION    HYMN. 

Bless  them,  thy  children  —  them  and  theirs, 

In  all  their  ways  below ; 
Be  with  them,  Father,  in  their  prayers, 

And  with  them  in  their  woe. 

Be  with  them  when  they  come  to  die, 
And  make  the  summons  blest; 

Then,  in  a  better  world  on  high, 
Receive  them  to  thy  rest. 


CHILDREN'S    HYMN. 


0  THOU  !  at  whose  dread  name  we  bend, 
To  whom  our  purest  vows  we  pay, 

GOD  over  all !  in  love  descend, 
And  bless  the  labors  of  this  day. 

Our  fathers  here,  a  pilgrim  band, 
Fixed  the  proud  empire  of  the  free ; 

Art  moved  in  gladness  o'er  the  land, 
And  Faith  her  altars  reared  to  thee. 

Here,  too,  to  guard,  through  every  age, 
The  sacred  rights  their  valor  won, 

They  bade  Instruction  spread  her  page, 
And  send  down  truth  from  sire  to  son. 

Here,  still,  through  all  succeeding  time, 

Their  stores  may  Worth  and  Wisdom  bring, 

And  still  the  anthem-note  sublime 
To  thee  from  children's  children  ring. 


THE   FAMILY   MEETING.* 


WE  are  ail  here ! 

Father,  mother, 

Sister,  brother, 

All  who  hold  each  other  dear. 
Each  chair  is  filled  —  we  're  all  at  home  ; 
To-night  let  no  cold  stranger  come ; 
It  is  not  often  thus  around 
Our  old  familiar  hearth  we  're  found. 
Bless,  then,  the  meeting  and  the  spot ; 
For  once  be  every  care  forgot ; 
Let  gentle  Peace  assert  her  power, 
And  kind  Affection  rule  the  hour ; 

We  're  all  —  all  here. 

We  're  not  all  here  ! 
Some  are  away  —  the  dead  ones  dear, 

*  These  lines  were  written  on  occasion  of  the  accidental  meeting  of 
all  the  surviving  members  of  a  family,  the  father  and  mother  of  which, 
one  eighty-two,  the  other  eighty  years  old,  have  lived  in  the  same 
house  fifty-three  years. 


THE    FAMILY   MEETING.  109 

Who  thronged  with  us  this  ancient  hearth. 
And  gave  the  hour  to  guiltless  mirth. 
Fate,  with  a  stern,  relentless  hand, 
Looked  in  and  thinned  our  little  band ; 
Some  like  a  night-flash  passed  away, 
And  some  sank,  lingering,  day  by  day  ; 
The  quiet  graveyard  —  some  lie  there  — 

And  cruel  Ocean  has  his  share  — 

/ 

We  're  not  all  here. 

We  are  all  here  ! 

Even  they  —  the  dead  —  though  dead,  so  dear. 
Fond  Memory,  to  her  duty  true, 
Brings  back  their  faded  forms  to  view. 
How  life-like,  through  the  mist  of  years, 
Each  well-remembered  face  appears  ! 
We  see  them  as  in  times  long  past ; 
From  each  to  each  kind  looks  are  cast ; 
We  hear  their  words,  their  smiles  behold, 
They  're  round  us  as  they  were  of  old  — 

We  are  all  here. 

We  are  all  here  ! 
Father,  mother, 
Sister,  brother, 
You  that  I  love  with  love  so  dear. 


110 


THE    FAMILY   MEETING. 

This  may  not  long  of  us  be  said ; 
Soon  must  we  join  the  gathered  dead ; 
And  by  the  hearth  we  now  sit  round 
Some  other  circle  will  be  found. 
O,  then,  that  wisdom  may  we  know, 
Which  yields  a  life  of  peace  below ! 
So,  in  the  world  to  follow  this, 
May  each  repeat,  in  words  of  bliss, 
We  're  all  —  all  here! 


LINES   ON  THE   DEATH   OF   M.  S.  C. 


I  KNEW  that  we  must  part  —  day  after  day, 
I  saw  the  dread  Destroyer  win  his  way ; 
That  hollow  cough  first  rang  the  fatal  knell, 
As  on  my  ear  its  prophet-warning  fell ; 
Feeble  and  slow  thy  once  light  footstep  grew, 
Thy  wasting  cheek  put  on  death's  pallid  hue, 
Thy  thin,  hot  hand  to  mine  more  weakly  clung, 
Each  sweet  "Good-night"  fell  fainter  from  thy  tongue  ; 
I  knew  that  we  must  part  —  no  power  could  save 
Thy  quiet  goodness  from  an  early  grave  ; 
Those  eyes  so  dull,  though  kind  each  glance  they  cast, 
Looking  a  sister's  fondness  to  the  last ; 
Thy  lips  so  pale,  that  gently  pressed  my  cheek, 
Thy  voice  —  alas !  thou  couldst  but  try  to  speak ;  — 
All  told  thy  doom  ;  I  felt  it  at  my  heart, 
The  shaft  had  struck  —  I  knew  that  we  must  part. 

And  we  have  parted,  Mary  —  thou  art  gone ! 
Gone  in  thine  innocence,  meek,  suffering  one. 


112  ON    THE    DEATH    OF   M.    S.    C. 

Thy  weary  spirit  breathed  itself  to  sleep 
So  peacefully,  it  seemed  a  sin  to  weep, 
In  those  fond  watchers  who  around  thee  stood, 
And  felt,  even  then,  that  God,  even  then,  was  good. 
Like  stars  that  struggle  through  the  clouds  of  night, 
Thine  eyes  one  moment  caught  a  glorious  light, 
As  if  to  thee,  in  that  dread  hour,  'twere  given 
To  know  on  earth  what  faith  believes  of  heaven ; 
Then  like  tired  breezes  didst  thou  sink  to  rest, 
Nor  one,  one  pang  the  awful  change  confessed. 
Death  stole  in  softness  o'er  that  lovely  face, 
And  touched  each  feature  with  a  new-born  grace ; 
On  cheek  and  brow  unearthly  beauty  lay, 
And  told  that  life's  poor  cares  had  passed  away. 
In  my  last  hour  be  Heaven  so  kind  to  me  ! 
I  ask  no  more  than  this  —  to  die  like  thee. 

But  we  have  parted,  Mary  —  thou  art  dead  ! 
On  its  last  resting-place  I  laid  thy  head, 
Then  by  thy  coffin-side  knelt  down,  and  took 
A  brother's  farewell  kiss  and  farewell  look : 
Those  marble  lips  no  kindred  kiss  returned ; 
From  those  veiled  orbs  no  glance  responsive  burned  ; 
Ah  !  then  I  felt  that  thou  hadst  passed  away, 
That  the  sweet  face  I  gazed  on  was  but  clay ; 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF   M.    S.    C.  113 

And  then  came  Memory,  with  her  busy  throng 
Of  tender  images,  forgotten  long  ; 
Years  hurried  back,  and  as  they  swiftly  rolled, 
I  saw  thee,  heard  thee,  as  in  days  of  old  ; 
Sad  and  more  sad  each  sacred  feeling  grew, 
Manhood  was  moved,  and  Sorrow  claimed  her  due ; 
Thick,  thick  and  fast,  the  burning  tear-drops  started  ; 
I  turned  away  —  and  felt  that  we  had  parted. 

But  not  forever  —  in  the  silent  tomb, 
Where  thou  art  laid,  thy  kindred  shall  find  room  ; 
A  little  while,  a  few  short  years  of  pain, 
And,  one  by  one,  we  '11  come  to  thee  again  ; 
The  kind  old  father  shall  seek  out  the  place, 
And  rest  with  thee,  the  youngest  of  his  race  ; 
The  dear,  dear  mother,  bent  with  age  and  grief, 
Shall  lay  her  head  by  thine,  in  sweet  relief ; 
Sister  and  brother,  and  that  faithful  friend, 
True  from  the  first,  and  tender  to  the  end.  — 
All,  all,  in  His  good  time,  who  placed  us  here, 
To  live,  to  love,  to  die  and  disappear, 
Shall  come  and  make  their  quiet  bed  with  thee, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  that  spreading  tree  ; 
With  thee  to  sleep  through  death's  long,  dreamless  night, 
With  thee  rise  up  and  bless  the  morning  light. 


"LOOK   ON   THIS   PICTURE." 


0,  IT  is  life !  departed  days 
Fling  back  their  brightness  while  I  gaze ; 
'Tis  Emma's  self — this  brow  so  fair, 
Half  curtained  in  this  glossy  hair, 
These  eyes,  the  very  home  of  love, 
The  dark  twin  arches  traced  above, 
These  red-ripe  lips  that  almost  speak, 
The  fainter  blush  of  this  pure  cheek, 
The  rose  and  lily's  beauteous  strife  — 
It  is  —  ah  no !  —  't  is  all  but  life. 

'T  is  all  but  life  —  art  could  not  save 
Thy  graces,  Emma,  from  the  grave  ; 
Thy  cheek  is  pale,  thy  smile  is  past, 
Thy  love-lit  eyes  have  looked  their  last ; 
Mouldering  beneath  the  coffin's  lid, 
All  we  adored  of  thee  is  hid  ; 
Thy  heart,  where  goodness  loved  to  dwell, 
Is  throbless  in  the  narrow  cell ; 


LOOK   ON    THIS    PICTURE.  115 

Thy  gentle  voice  shall  charm  no  more ; 
Its  last,  last,  joyful  note  is  o'er. 

Oft,  oft,  indeed,  it  hath  been  sung, 
The  requiem  of  the  fair  and  young ; 
The  theme  is  old,  alas  !  how  old, 
Of  grief  that  will  not  be  controlled, 
Of  sighs  that  speak  a  father's  woe, 
Of  pangs  that  none  but  mothers  know, 
Of  friendship  with  its  bursting  heart, 
Doomed  from  the  idol-one  to  part  — 
Still  its  sad  debt  must  feeling  pay, 
Till  feeling,  too,  shall  pass  away. 

O  say,  why  age,  and  grief,  and  pain, 
Shall  long  to  go,  but  long  in  vain ; 
Why  vice  is  left  to  mock  at  time, 
And,  gray  in  years,  grow  gray  in  crime ; 
While  youth,  that  every  eye  makes  glad, 
And  beauty,  all  in  radiance  clad, 
And  goodness,  cheering  every  heart, 
Come,  but  come  only  to  depart ; 
Sunbeams,  to  cheer  life's  wintry  day, 
Sunbeams,  to  flash,  then  fade  away. 


116  LOOK    ON    THIS   PICTURE. 

'T  is  darkness  all !  black  banners  wave 

Round  the  cold  borders  of  the  grave ; 

There  when  in  agony  we  bend 

O'er  the  fresh  sod  that  hides  a  friend, 

One  only  comfort  then  we  know  — 

We,  too,  shall  quit  this  world  of  woe  ; 

We,  too,  shall  find  a  quiet  place 

With  the  dear  lost  ones  of  our  race  ; 

Our  crumbling  bones  with  theirs  shall  blend, 

And  life's  sad  story  find  an  end. 

And  is  this  all  —  this  mournful  doom  ? 
Beams  no  glad  light  beyond  the  tomb  ? 
Mark  where  yon  clouds  in  darkness  ride  ; 
They  do  not  quench  the  orb  they  hide  ; 
Still  there  it  wheels  —  the  tempest  o'er, 
In  a  bright  sky  to  burn  once  more  : 
So,  far  above  the  clouds  of  time, 
Faith  can  behold  a  world  sublime  — 
There,  when  the  storms  of  life  are  past, 
The  light  beyond  shall  break  at  last. 


I   SEE    THEE    STILL. 


I  rocked  her  in  the  cradle, 

And  laid  her  in  the  tomb.     She  was  the  youngest. 
What  fireside  circle  hath  not  felt  the  charm 
Of  that  sweet  tie  ?    The  youngest  ne'er  grow  old. 
The  fond  endearments  of  our  earlier  days 
We  keep  alive  in  them,  and  when  they  die 
Our  youthful  joys  we  bury  with  them. 


I  SEE  thee  still  ; 

Remembrance,  faithful  to  her  trust, 
Calls  thee  in  beauty  from  the  dust ; 
Thou  comest  in  the  morning  light, 
Thou  'rt  with  me  through  the  gloomy  night; 
In  dreams  I  meet  thee  as  of  old  ; 
Then  thy  soft  arms  my  neck  enfold, 
And  thy  sweet  voice  is  in  my  ear ; 
In  every  scene  to  memory  dear, 
I  see  thee  still. 


118  I   SEE    THEE    STILL. 

I  see  thee  still, 

In  every  hallowed  token  round  ; 
This  little  ring  thy  finger  bound, 
This  lock  of  hair  thy  forehead  shaded, 
This  silken  chain  by  thee  was  braided, 
These  flowers,  all  withered  now,  like  thee, 
Sweet  SISTER,  thou  didst  cull  for  me ; 
This  book  was  thine  ;  here  didst  thou  read ; 
This  picture  —  ah  !  yes,  here,  indeed, 

I  see  thee  still. 

I  see  thee  still ; 

Here  was  thy  summer  noon's  retreat, 
Here  was  thy  favorite  fireside  seat ; 
This  was  thy  chamber  —  here,  each  day, 
I  sat  and  watched  thy  sad  decay ; 
Here,  on  this  bed.  thou  last  didst  lie ; 
Here,  on  this  pillow — thou  didst  die. 
Dark  hour !  once  more  its  woes  unfold ; 
As  then  I  saw  thee.  pale  and  cold, 

I  see  thee  still. 

I  see  thee  still ; 

Thou  art  not  in  the  grave  confined  — 
Death  cannot  claim  the  immortal  Mind ; 


I   SEE    THEE    STILL.  119 

Let  Earth  close  o'er  its  sacred  trust, 
But  Goodness  dies  not  in  the  dust ; 
Thee,  O  my  SISTER  !  't  is  not  thee 
Beneath  the  coffin's  lid  I  see  ; 
Thou  to  a  fairer  land  art  gone  ; 
There,  let  me  hope,  my  journey  done, 
To  see  thee  still ! 
9 


THE   TOMB    OF    EMMELINE. 


SPIRIT  of  sadness  !  gently  breathe 

Thy  holiest  spell  around, 
While  Friendship  trims  its  minstrel  wreath, 
For  her  who  coldly  rests  beneath 

This  little,  silent  mound. 

Daughters  of  goodness  and  of  grace, 

0  come  with  me  and  weep ! 
In  this  pale  form  Death's  havoc  trace, 
Pillowed  in  life's  dark  resting-place, 

Wrapped  in  the  long,  last  sleep. 

Come,  and  the  lovely  ruin  view, 

Cold  in  its  kindred  mould ; 
Here  throbbed  a  heart  to  feeling  true, 
And  pure  as  Heaven's  bright  pearl  of  dew, 

That  gems  the  lily's  fold. 


THE    TOMB    OF   EMMELINE.  121 

Here  beamed  an  eye  of  life  and  light ; 

Here  Health's  rich  crimson  blushed : 
That  crimson  fades  before  the  blight, 
That  eye's  sweet  ray  is  quenched  in  night, 

That  heart's  warm  throb  is  hushed. 

Dark  is  the  dwelling  of  her  sire, 

His  soul  is  veiled  in  gloom ; 
No  more  his  Emma  sweeps  the  lyre; 
The  tongue  that  kindled  music's  fire 

Is  silent  in  the  tomb. 

Grief  on  his  wounded  spirit  preys  ; 

That  grief,  0  "  who  can  bear  ? " 
Each  hallowed  relic  meets  his  gaze, 
Of  Emma's  taste  in  brighter  days, 

But  Emma  is  not  them. 

To  thee,  fond  mother,  mute  with  woe, 

0,  what  shall  Friendship  say  ? 
It  cannot  bid  thee  grief  forego, 
Even  while  its  own  warm  tear-drops  flow, 

For  beauty  cold  in  clay. 

No,  no !  away  the  tutored  strain ; 
It  boasts  an  idle  power : 


122  THE    TOMB    OF    EMMELINE. 

Like  thee,  I  Ve  felt  how  poor,  how  vain, 
The  kindest  voice  to  soothe  the  pain 
Of  Sorrow's  aching  hour. 

She,  the  beloved,  has  passed  away, 

Her  blameless  life  is  o'er ; 
And  grief  must  hold  its  mournful  sway, 
Till,  in  a  fairer,  happier  day, 

Friends  meet  to  part  no  more. 


THE    FUNERAL. 


AGAINST  the  wall  a  lovely  picture  hung, 

So  true  to  life,  it  wanted  but  a  tongue ; 

'T  was  a  young  girl's  —  the  face,  though  passing  fair, 

Spoke  more  of  goodness  than  of  beauty  there. 

Years,  years  had  vanished  since  the  limner's  power, 

Stealing  the  sweetness  of  a  passing  hour, 

Had  stamped  it  there,  a  little  circle's  gaze, 

The  fond  memorial  of  departed  days. 

Years,  years  had  vanished  —  where  was  she  whose  face 
Still  from  that  canvass  smiled  in  girlhood's  grace  ? 
A  coffin  stood  beside' —  I  raised  the  lid  — 
Alas !  another  picture  there  was  hid  ; 
What  hard,  stern  hand  those  pallid  features  drew  ? 
That  cheek,  that  brow  —  so  false,  and  yet  so  true  ? 
'T  was  she  —  the  same  —  there  in  her  maiden  bloom, 
Here  cold  in  death,  and  waiting  for  the  tomb. 

A  gray-haired  man  leaned  o'er  her  where  she  slept, 
Then  to  the  living  likeness  turned  —  and  wept ; 


124  THE    FUNERAL. 

Children,  fond,  grieving  children,  looked  within, 
As  if  their  love  one  answering  look  might  win  ; 
Vain  hope  !  the  eye  was  dark,  and  dull  the  ear 
That  never,  till  that  hour,  refused  to  hear  ; 
Hushed,  even  to  them,  forever  hushed  the  tongue, 
On  whose  sweet  lessons  they  so  long  had  hung. 


Turn,  mourners,  from  that  face  ;  it  tells  of  gloom  ; 
Around  it  draw  the  curtain  of  the  tomb  ; 
Look  on  this  breathing  picture  of  her  youth, 
See  where  it  smiles,  in  beauty  and  in  truth  ; 
Like  this  she  lives  in  her  eternal  home, 
That  bright  abode  where  sorrow  ne'er  can  come  ; 
There,  in  the  likeness  that  her  Maker  drew, 
Ye  weeping  ones,  she  waits  to  welcome  you. 


CHARLES    JAMES. 

ON    THE   ANNIVERSARY    OF  HIS   BIRTH. 


Thou  cam'st  —  what  pleasures  new  and  bright 

Thy  coming  gave ! 

Thou  'rt  gone  —  and  every  young  delight 
Is  laid  in  thy  dark  grave ! 


THERE  is  a  spot  —  't  is  holy  ground 

To  those  who  weep, 

Where,  hushed  beneath  each  lonely  mound, 
Death's  mouldering  victims  sleep. 

Friend,  sister,  brother,  there  are  laid, 

From  sorrows  free ; 
And  there  a  clay-cold  bed  is  made 

For  thee,  Sweet  Boy !  for  thee. 

Those  little  hands  thou  'It  raise  no  more 

To  meet  my  arms  ; 

Thou  'rt  gone  !  the  bitter  wind  passed  o'er, 
And  withered  all  thy  charms. 


126  CHARLES   JAMES. 

Forever  gone  life's  active  spark, 

The  blood's  warm  thrill ; 
Thy  bright  blue  eyes  are  closed  and  dark, 
Thy  merry  laugh  is  still. 

I  Ve  sate  me  by  thy  cradle's  side, 

And  joyed  to  trace, 
Blind  fool !  with  all  a  father's  pride, 
Thy  future  earthly  race,, 

Fancy  beheld  thee  good  and  wise, 

Honor's  proud  theme, 
Truth's  sturdy  prop,  Fame's  noble  prize  — 
But  0,  't  was  all  a  dream. 

There  came  an  hour  —  with  me  't  will  live 

Till  life  depart ; 

Time's  vaunted  skill  no  balm  can  give, 
Remembrance  wrings  my  heart. 

'T  was  when  I  watched,  with  curdling  blood, 

Each  stifled  breath ; 

'T  was  when  on  that  pale  forehead  stood 
The  boding  damp  of  death. 


CHARLES   JAMES.  127 

'T  was  when  the  tyrant's  grasp,  so  cold, 

Chilled  life's  young  tide ; 

'T  was  when  those  eyes  that  last  glance  rolled  — 
'T  was  when  my  poor  boy  died. 

The  sigh  will  rise,  in  manhood's  spite, 

The  tears  will  roll ; 

Grief  round  me  draws  her  mental  night, 
And  desolates  my  soul. 

Yet  let  my  stricken  heart  be  taught 

That  thou  'rt  in  peace  ; 
That  lesson,  with  true  wisdom  fraught, 
Should  bid  each  anguish  cease. 

If  there  's  a  refuge-place  at  last, 

For  man  t'  enjoy, 

There  may  I  meet,  earth's  trials  past, 
My  Charles,  my  cherub  boy ! 


DEATH   OF   AN   INFANT. 


ONE  little  bud  adorned  my  bower, 

And  shed  sweet  fragrance  round ; 
It  grew  in  beauty,  hour  by  hour, 
Till,  ah  !  the  Spoiler  came  in  power, 
And  crushed  it  to  the  ground. 

Yet  not  forever  in  the  dust 

That  beauteous  bud  shall  lie ; 
No  !  —  in  the  garden  of  the  just, 
Beneath  God's  glorious  eye,  we  trust, 
'T  will  bloom  again  on  high. 


LINES    TO   A    YOUNG   MOTHER. 

YOUNG  mother !  what  can  feeble  friendship  say, 
To  soothe  the  anguish  of  this  mournful  day  ? 
They,  they  alone  whose  hearts  like  thine  have  bled, 
Know  how  the  living  sorrow  for  the  dead ; 
Each  tutored  voice,  that  seeks  such  grief  to  cheer, 
Strikes  cold  upon  the  weeping  parent's  ear ; 
I  've  felt  it  all —  alas !  too  well  I  know 
How  vain  all  earthly  power  to  hush  thy  woe  ! 
God  cheer  thee,  childless  mother  !  't  is  not  given 
For  man  to  ward  the  blow  that  falls  from  Heaven. 

I  've  felt  it  all  —  as  thou  art  feeling  now  ; 
Like  thee,  with  stricken  heart  and  aching  brow, 
I  've  sat  and  watched  by  dying  Beauty's  bed, 
And  burning  tears  of  hopeless  anguish  shed  ; 
I  Ve  gazed  upon  the  sweet,  but  pallid  face, 
And  vainly  tried  some  comfort  there  to  trace  : 
I  've  listened  to  the  short  and  struggling  breath  ; 
I  've  seen  the  cherub  eye  grow  dim  in  death  ; 
Like  thee,  I  've  veiled  my  head  in  speechless  gloom, 
And  laid  my  first-born  in  the  silent  tomb. 


EDWIN    BUCKINGHAM. 


SPARE  him  one  little  week,  Almighty  Power ! 
Yield  to  his  father's  house  his  dying  hour ; 
Once  more,  once  more  let  them,  who  held  him  dear, 
But  see  his  face,  his  faltering  voice  but  hear ; 
We  know,  alas !  that  he  is  marked  for  death, 
But  let  his  mother  watch  his  parting  breath  ; 
O,  let  him  die  at  home  ! 

It  could  not  be ! 

At  midnight,  on  a  dark  and  stormy  sea, 
Far  from  his  kindred  and  his  native  land, 
His  pangs  unsoothed  by  tender  woman's  hand, 
The  patient  victim  in  his  cabin  lay, 
And  meekly  breathed  his  blameless  life  away. 


"  Wrapped  in  the  raiment  that  it  long  must  wear, 
His  body  to  the  deck  they  slowly  bear ; 


EDWIN    BUCKINGHAM.  131 

How  eloquent,  how  awful  in  its  power, 

The  silent  lecture  of  death's  sabhath-hour  ! 

One  voice  that  silence  breaks  —  the  prayer  is  said, 

And  the  last  rite  man  pays  to  man  is  paid ; 

The  plashing  waters  mark  his  resting-place, 

And  fold  him  round  in  one  long,  cold  embrace ; 

Bright  bubbles  for  a  moment  sparkle  o'er, 

Then  break,  to  be,  like  him,  beheld  no  more  ; 

Down,  countless  fathoms  down,  he  sinks  to  sleep, 

With  all  the  nameless  shapes  that  haunt  the  deep."1* 


Rest,  Loved  One,  rest — beneath  the  billow's  swell, 
"Where  tongue  ne'er  spoke,  where  sunlight  never  fell ; 
Rest  —  till  the  God  who  gave  thee  to  the  deep 
Rouse  thee,  triumphant,  from  the  long,  long  sleep. 
And  You,  whose  hearts  are  bleeding,  who  deplore 
That  ye  must  see  the  wanderer's  face  no  more, 
Weep  —  he  was  worthy  of  the  purest  grief; 
Weep  —  in  such  sorrow  ye  shall  find  relief ; 
While  o'er  his  doom  the  bitter  tear  ye  shed, 
Memory  shall  trace  the  virtues  of  the  dead  ; 
These  cannot  die  —  for  you,  for  him,  they  bloom, 
And  scatter  fragrance  round  his  ocean-tomb. 

*  Curiosity. 


MOUNT   AUBURN. 

THERE    WAS    A   GARDEN,    AND    IN    THE   GARDEN    A   NEW 
SEPULCHRE." 


WHAT  myriads  throng,  in  proud  array, 
With  songs  of  joy,  and  flags  unfurled, 

To  consecrate  the  glorious  day, 
That  gave  a  nation  to  the  world ! 

We  raise  no  shout,  no  trumpet  sound, 
No  banner  to  the  breeze  we  spread  ; 

Children  of  clay  !  bend  humbly  round ; 
We  plant  a  city  to  the  dead. 

For  man  a  garden  rose  in  bloom, 
When  yon  glad  sun  began  to  burn ; 

He  fell  —  and  heard  the  awful  doom  — 
"  Of  dust  thou  art  —  to  dust  return !" 


MOUNT  AUBURN.  133 

But  HE,  in  whose  pure  faith  we  come, 

Who  in  a  gloomier  garden  lay, 
Assured  us  of  a  brighter  home, 

And  rose,  and  led  the  glorious  way. 

His  word  we  trust !     When  life  shaU  end, 
Here  be  our  long,  long  slumber  passed  ; 

To  the  fast  garden's  doom  we  bend, 
And  bless  the  promise  of  the  last. 


THE    BROTHERS. 


ARE  BUT  TWO  —  the  others  sleep 
Through  Death's  untroubled  night ; 
We  are  but  two  —  O,  let  us  keep 
The  link  that  binds  us  bright ! 

Heart  leaps  to  heart  —  the  sacred  flood 
That  warms  us  is  the  same  ; 

That  good  old  man  —  his  honest  blood 
Alike  we  fondly  claim. 

We  in  one  mother's  arms  were  locked  — 

Long  be  her  love  repaid  ; 
In  the  same  cradle  we  were  rocked, 

Round  the  same  hearth  we  played. 

Our  boyish  sports  were  all  the  same, 

Each  little  joy  and  woe  ;  — 
Let  manhood  keep  alive  the  flame, 

Lit  up  so  long  ago. 


THE   BROTHERS.  135 

WE  ARE  BUT  TWO  —  be  that  the  band 

To  hold  us  till  we  die ; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  let  us  stand, 

Till  side  by  side  we  he. 
10 


THE    WINGED    WORSHIPPERS. 

ADDRESSED    TO    TWO    SWALLOWS    THAT    FLEW    INTO    CHAUNCEY 
PLACE    CHURCH    DURING    DIVINE    SERVICE. 


GAY,  guiltless  pair, 
What  seek  ye  from  the  fields  of  heaven  ? 

Ye  have  no  need  of  prayer, 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  be  forgiven. 

Why  perch  ye  here, 
Where  mortals  to  their  Maker  bend  ? 

Can  your  pure  spirits  fear 
The  God  ye  never  could  offend  ? 

Ye  never  knew 
The  crimes  for  which  we  come  to  weep. 

Penance  is  not  for  you, 
Blessed  wanderers  of  the  upper  deep. 

To  you  't  is  given 
To  wake  sweet  Nature's  untaught  lays ; 

Beneath  the  arch  of  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  life  of  praise. 


THE    WTsGED   WORSHIPPERS.  137 

Then  spread  each  wing, 
Far,  far  above,  o'er  lakes  and  lands, 

And  join  the  choirs  that  sing 
In  yon  blue  dome  not  reared  with  hands. 

Or,  if  ye  stay, 

To  note  the  consecrated  hour, 
Teach  me  the  airy  way, 
And  let  me  try  your  envied  power. 

Above  the  crowd, 
On  upward  wings  could  I  but  fly, 
I  'd  bathe  in  yon  bright  cloud, 
And  seek  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky. 

'T  were  Heaven  indeed 
Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to  soar, 

On  Nature's  charms  to  feed, 
And  Nature's  own  great  God  adore. 


TO   MY   CIGAR. 

YES,  social  friend,  I  love  thee  well, 

In  learned  doctors'  spite ; 
Thy  clouds  all  other  clouds  dispel, 

And  lap  me  in  delight. 

By  thee,  they  cry,  with  phizzes  long, 

My  years  are  sooner  passed ; 
Well,  take  my  answer,  right  or  wrong, 

They  're  sweeter  while  they  last. 

And  oft,  mild  friend,  to  me  thou  art 

A  monitor,  though  still ; 
Thou  speak'st  a  lesson  to  my  heart 

Beyond  the  preacher's  skill. 

Thou  'rt  like  the  man  of  worth,  who  gives 

To  goodness  every  day, 
The  odor  of  whose  virtue  lives 

When  he  has  passed  away. 


TO   MY  CIGAE.  139 

When,  in  the  lonely  evening  hour, 

Attended  but  by  thee, 
O'er  history's  varied  page  I  pore, 

Man's  fate  in  thine  i  see. 

Oft  as  thy  snowy  column  grows, 

Then  breaks  and  falls  away, 
I  trace  how  mighty  realms  thus  rose, 

Thus  tumbled  to  decay. 

Awhile  like  thee  the  hero  burns, 

And  smokes  and  fumes  around, 
And  then,  like  thee,  to  ashes  turns, 

And  mingles  with  the  ground. 

Life 's  but  a  leaf  adroitly  rolled, 

And  time 's  the  wasting  breath, 
That  late  or  early,  we  behold, 

Gives  all  to  dusty  death. 

From  beggar's  frieze  to  monarch's  robe, 

One  common  doom  is  passed ; 
Sweet  Nature's  works,  the  swelling  globe, 

Must  all  burn  out  at  last. 


140  TO    MY   CIGAR. 

And  what  is  he  who  smokes  thee  now  ?• 

A  little  moving  heap, 
That  soon  like  thee  to  fate  must  bow, 

With  thee  in  dust  must  sleep. 

But  though  thy  ashes  downward  go, 
Thy  essence  rolls  on  high ; 

Thus,  when  my  body  must  lie  low, 
My  soul  shall  cleave  the  sky. 


TO    MONTAGUE, 

AT    THIRTY-THREE. 

0,  NO,  I'll  not  forget  the  day, — 
It  claims,  at  least,  a  hallowed  hour, 

A  sparkling  cup,  an  honest  lay, 

Sacred  to  Friendship's  soothing  power. 

'T  is  not  all  ice,  this  heart  of  mine,  — 
One  throb  is  warm  and  youthful  still ; 

That  throb,  dear  MONTAGUE,  is  thine, 
Nor  age  nor  grief  that  throb  can  chill. 

How  often  sung,  and  yet  how  sweet 

To  dwell  upon  the  days  of  old ! 
Our  guiltless  pleasures  to  repeat, 

Ere  in  the  world  our  hearts  grew  cold  ! 

Fond  memory  wakes  !  each  pulse  beats  high  ; 

Like  some  sweet  tale  past  joys  come  o'er, 
The  years  of  ruin  backward  fly, 

And  I  am  young  and  gay  once  more. 


142  TO   MONTAGUE. 

Friend  of  my  soul !  in  this  poor  verse 
Let  one  untutored  tribute  live ; 

Here  let  my  tongue  my  love  rehearse ; 
'Tis  all,  alas  !  I  have  to  give. 

0,  if,  from  time's  wide-yawning  grave, 
There 's  aught  of  mine  that  I  could  free, 

One  line  from  dull  oblivion  save, 

*T  would  be  the  line  that  tells  of  thee. 

Though  to  the  busy  world  unknown 
Each  noble  act  that  shrinks  from  fame, 

Goodness  its  favorite  son  shall  own, 
And  orphan  lips  shall  bless  his  name. 

Thou  'rt  the  small  stream,  that  silent  goes, 
By  earth's  cold,  plodding  crowd  unseen, — 

Yet,  all  unnoticed  though  it  flows, 
Its  banks  are  clothed  in  living  green. 

We  met  in  that  bright,  sunny  time, 
When  every  scene  was  fresh  around, 

And  youth's  warm  hour  and  manhood's  prime 
Have  blessed  the  tie  that  boyhood  bound. 


TO   MONTAGUE. 


143 


Though  oft  of  valued  friends  bereft, 

I  bend,  submissive,  to  the  doom ; 
For  thou,  the  best,  the  best,  art  left, 

To  cheer  my  journey  to  the  tomb. 

And  now,  the  dear  ones  of  our  race 
Have  come  to  live  our  pleasures  o'er; 

A  lovely  troop,  to  fill  our  place, 

And  weep  for  us  when  we  're  no  more. 

Ever,  O  ever  may  they  keep 

The  holy  chain  of  friendship  bright, 

Till,  rich  in  all  that's  good,  they  sleep 

With  us  through  death's  long,  dreamless  night. 


PROSE   WRITINGS. 


AMERICAN    INDEPENDENCE. 

AN    ORATION   PRONOUNCED    BEFORE    THE    INHABITANTS    OF 
BOSTON,    JULY  4,  1825. 


WHY,  on  THIS  day,  lingers  along  these  sacred  walls 
the  spirit-kindling  anthem  ?  Why,  on  THIS  day,  waits 
the  herald  of  God  at  the  altar,  to  utter  forth  his  holy 
prayer  ?  Why,  on  THIS  day,  congregate  here  the  wise, 
and  the  good,  and  the  beautiful  of  the  land  ?  —  Fathers  ! 
Friends  !  it  is  the  SABBATH-DAY  OF  FREEDOM  !  The  race 
of  the  ransomed,  with  grateful  hearts  and  exulting  voices, 
have  again  come  up,  in  the  sunlight  of  peace,  to  the 
Jubilee  of  their  Independence  ! 

The  story  of  our  country's  sufferings,  our  country's 
triumphs,  though  often  and  eloquently  told,  is  still  a 
story  that  cannot  tire,  and  must  not  be  forgotten.  You 
will  listen  to  its  recital,  however  unadorned  ;  and  I  shall 
not  fear,  therefore,  even  from  the  place  where  your 
chosen  ones  have  so  long  stood  to  delight  and  enlighten, 
—  I  shall  not  fear  to  address  you.  Though  I  tell  you 


148  AMERICAN    INDEPENDENCE. 

110  new  thing,  I  speak  of  that  which  can  never  fall  coldly 
on  your  ears.  You  will  listen,  for  you  are  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  the  heroic  men  who  lighted  the  beacon  of 
"  rebellion,"  and  unfurled,  by  its  blaze,  the  triumphant 
banner  of  liberty ;  your  own  blood  will  speak  for  me.  A 
feeble  few  of  that  intrepid  band  are  now  among  you,  yet 
spared  by  the  grave  for  your  veneration  ;  they  will  speak 
for  me.  Their  sinking  forms,  their  bleached  locks,  their 
honorable  scars ;  —  these  will,  indeed,  speak  for  me. 
Undaunted  men !  how  must  their  dim  eyes  brighten  and 
their  old  hearts  grow  young  with  rapture,  as  they  look 
round  on  the  happiness  of  their  own  creation!  Long 
may  they  remain,  our  glad  and  grateful  gaze,  to  teach 
us  all,  that  we  may  treasure  all,  of  the  hour  of  doubt  and 
danger ;  and  when  their  God  shall  summon  them  to  a 
glorious  rest,  may  they  bear  to  their  departed  comrades 
the  confirmation  of  their  country's  renown  and  their 
children's  felicity ! 

We  meet  to  indulge  in  pleasing  reminiscences.  One 
happy  household,  we  have  come  round  the  table  of  mem 
ory  to  banquet  on  the  good  deeds  of  others,  and  to  grow 
good  ourselves,  by  that  on  which  we  feed.  Our  hope 
for  remembrance,  our  desire  to  remember  friends  and 
benefactors,  are  among  the  warmest  and  purest  senti 
ments  of  our  nature.  To  the  former  we  cling  stronger, 


AMERICAN    INDEPENDENCE.  149 

as  life  itself  grows  weaker.  We  know  that  we  shall 
forget,  but  the  thought  of  being  forgotten  is  the  death- 
knell  to  the  spirit.  Though  our  bodies  moulder,  we 
would  have  our  memories  live.  When  we  are  gone,  we 
shall  not  hear  the  murmuring  voice  of  affection,  the 
grateful  tribute  of  praise ;  still,  we  love  to  believe  that 
that  voice  will  be  raised,  and  that  tribute  paid.  Few  so 
humble  that  they  sink  below,  none  so  exalted  that  they 
rise  above,  this  common  feeling  of  humanity.  The  ship 
wrecked  sailor,  thrown  on  a  shore  where  human  eye 
never  lightened,  before  he  scoops  in  the  burning  sand  his 
last,  sad  resting-place,  scratches  on  a  fragment  of  his 
shattered  bark  the  record  of  his  fate,  in  the  melancholy 
hope  that  it  may  some  day  be  repeated  to  the  dear  ones 
who  had  long  looked  out  in  vain  for  his  coming.  The 
laureled  warrior,  whose  foot  has  trodden  on  crowns, 
whose  hand  has  divided  empires,  when  he  sinks  on  vic 
tory's  red  field,  and  life  flies  hunted  from  each  quivering 
vein,  turns  his  last  mortal  thought  on  that  life  to  come, 
his  country's  brightest  page. 

The  remembrance  we  so  ardently  desire,  we  render 
unto  others.  To  those  who  are  dear,  we  pay  our  dearest 
tribute.  It  is  exhibited  in  the  most  simple,  in  the  most 
sublime  forms.  We  behold  it  in  the  child,  digging  a 
little  grave  for  its  dead  favorite,  and  marking  the  spot 


150  AMERICAN   INDEPENDENCE. 

with  a  willow  twig  and  a  tear.  We  behold  it  in  the 
congregated  nation,  setting  up  on  high  its  monumental 
pile  to  the  mighty.  We  beheld  it,  lately,  on  that  green 
plain,  dyed  with  Freedom's  first  blood ;  #  on  that  proud 
hill,  ennobled  as  Freedom's  first  fortress ;  t  when  the 
tongues  of  the  eloquent,  touched  with  creative  fire, 
seemed  to  bid  the  dust  beneath  them  live,  and  the  long- 
buried  come  forth.  We  behold  it  now,  here,  in  this  con 
secrated  temple,  where  we  have  assembled  to  pay  our 
annual  debt  of  gratitude,  to  talk  of  the  bold  deeds  of  our 
ancestors,  from  the  day  of  peril,  when  they  wrestled  with 
the  savage  for  his  birthright,  to  the  day  of  glory,  when 
they  proclaimed  a  new  charter  to  man,  and  gave  a  new 
nation  to  the  world. 

ROLL  back  the  tide  of  time :  how  powerfully  to  us 
applies  the  promise — "I  will  give  thee  the  heathen  for 
an  inheritance  ! "  Not  many  generations  ago,  where 
you  now  sit,  circled  with  all  that  exalts  and  embellishes 
civilized  life,  the  rank  thistle  nodded  in  the  wind,  and 
the  wild  fox  dug  his  hole  unscared.  Here  lived  and 
loved  another  race  of  beings.  Beneath  the  same  sun 
that  rolls  over  your  heads,  the  Indian  hunter  pursued  the 

*  Concord  Celebration,  April  19. 
t  Bunker  Hill  Celebration,  June  17. 


AMERICAN    INDEPENDENCE.  151 

panting  deer ;  gazing  on  the  same  moon  that  smiles  for 
you,  the  Indian  lover  wooed  his  dusky  mate.  Here  the 
wigwam  blaze  beamed  on  the  tender  and  the  helpless, 
the  council-fire  glared  on  the  wise  and  the  daring.  Now 
they  dipped  their  noble  limbs  in  your  sedgy  lakes,  and 
now  they  paddled  the  light  canoe  alonsr  your  rocky 
shores.  Here  they  warred ;  the  echoing  whoop,  the 
bloody  grapple,  the  defying  death-song,  all  were  here ; 
and,  when  the  tiger  strife  was  over,  here  curled  the 
smoke  of  peace.  Here,  too,  they  worshipped ;  and  from 
many  a  dark  bosom  went  up  a  pure  prayer  to  the  Great 
Spirit.  He  had  not  written  His  laws  for  them  on  tables 
of  stone,  but  He  had  traced  them  on  the  tables  of  their 
hearts.  The  poor  child  of  nature  knew  not  the  God  of 
revelation,  but  the  God  of  the  universe  he  acknowledged 
in  everything  around.  He  beheld  him  in  the  star  that 
sank  in  beauty  behind  his  lowly  dwelling,  in  the  sacred 
orb  that  flamed  on  him  from  his  mid-day  throne ;  —  in 
the  flower  that  snapped  in  the  morning  breeze,  in  the 
lofty  pine  that  had  defied  a  thousand  whirlwinds ;  —  in 
the  timid  warbler  that  never  left  its  native  grove,  in  the 
fearless  eagle  whose  untired  pinion  was  wet  in  clouds ; 
—  in  the  worm  that  crawled  at  his  foot,  and  in  his  own 
matchless  form,  glowing  with  a  spark  of  that  light,  to 
11 


152  AMERICAN    INDEPENDENCE. 

whose  mysterious  source  he  bent,  in  humble  though 
blind  adoration. 

And  all  this  has  passed  away.  Across  the  ocean  came 
a  pilgrim  bark,  bearing  the  seeds  of  life  and  death.  The 
former  were  sown  for  you,  the  latter  sprang  up  in  the 
path  of  the  simple  native.  Two  hundred  years  have 
changed  the  character  of  a  great  continent,  and  blotted 
forever  from  its  face  a  whole,  peculiar  people.  Art  has 
usurped  the  bowers  of  nature,  and  the  anointed  children 
of  education  have  been  too  powerful  for  the  tribes  of  the 
ignorant.  Here  and  there,  a  stricken  few  remain ;  but 
how  unlike  their  bold,  untamed,  untamable  progenitors ! 
The  Indian,  of  falcon  glance,  and  lion  bearing,  the 
theme  of  the  touching  ballad,  the  hero  of  the  pathetic 
tale,  is  gone !  and  his  degraded  offspring  crawl  upon  the 
soil  where  he  walked  in  majesty,  to  remind  us  how  mis 
erable  is  man  when  the  foot  of  the  conqueror  is  on  his 
neck. 

As  a  race,  they  have  withered  from  the  land.  Their 
arrows  are  broken,  their  springs  are  dried  up,  their  cabins 
are  in  the  dust.  Their  council-fire  has  long  since  gone 
out  on  the  shore,  and  their  war-cry  is  fast  dying  away  to 
the  untrodden  west.  Slowly  and  sadly  they  climb  the 
distant  mountains,  and  read  their  doom  in  the  setting 
sun.  They  are  shrinking  before  the  mighty  tide  which 


AMERICAN   INDEPENDENCE.  153 

is  pressing  them  away ;  they  must  soon  hear  the  roar  of 
the  last  wave,  which  will  settle  over  them  forever.  Ages 
hence,  the  inquisitive  white  man,  as  he  stands  by  some 
growing  city,  will  ponder  on  the  structure  of  their  dis 
turbed  remains,  and  wonder  to  what  manner  of  person 
they  belonged.  They  will  live  only  in  the  songs  and 
chronicles  of  their  exterminators.  Let  these  be  faithful 
to  their  rude  virtues  as  men,  and  pay  due  tribute  to  their 
unhappy  fate  as  a  people. 

To  the  pious,  who,  in  this  desert  region,  built  a  city 
of  refuge,  little  less  than  to  the  brave,  who  round  that 
city  reared  an  impregnable  wall  of  safety,  we  owe  the 
blessings  of  this  day.  To  enjoy  and  to  perpetuate  reli 
gious  freedom,  the  sacred  herald  of  civil  liberty,  they 
deserted  their  native  land,  wrhere  the  foul  spirit  of  perse 
cution  was  up  in  its  fury,  and  where  mercy  had  long 
wept  at  the  enormities  perpetrated  in  the  abused  names 
of  Jehovah  and  Jesus.  "  Resist  unto  blood ! "  blind 
zealots  had  found  in  the  Bible ;  and  lamentably,  indeed, 
did  they  fulfil  the  command.  With  "  Thus  saith  the 
Lord,"  the  engines  of  cruelty  were  set  in  motion ;  and 
many  a  martyr  spirit,  like  the  ascending  prophet  from 
Jordan's  bank,  escaped  in  fire  to  heaven. 

It  was  in  this  night  of  time,  when  the  incubus  of  big 
otry  sat  heavy  on  the  human  soul ;  — 


154  AMERICAN   INDEPENDENCE. 

When  crown  and  crosier  ruled  a  coward  world, 

And  mental  darkness  o'er  the  nations  curled, — 

When,  wrapped  in  sleep,  earth's  torpid  children  lay, 

Hugged  their  vile  chains,  and  dreamed  their  age  away,  — 

'T  was  then,  by  faith  impelled,  by  freedom  fired, 

By  hope  supported,  and  by  God  inspired,  — 

'Twas  then  the  Pilgrims  left  their  fathers'  graves, 

To  seek  a  home  beyond  the  waste  of  waves  ; 

And  where  it  rose,  all  rough  and  wintry,  here, 

They  swelled  devotion's  song,  and  dropped  devotion's  tear. 

Can  we  sufficiently  admire  the  firmness  of  this  little 
brotherhood,  thus  self-banished  from  their  country  ?  — 
unkind  and  cruel,  it  was  true,  but  still  their  country ! 
There  they  were  born,  and  there,  where  the  lamp  of  life 
was  lighted,  they  had  hoped  it  would  go  out.  There  a 
father's  hand  had  led  them,  a  mother's  smile  had  warmed 
them.  There  were  the  sunny  haunts  of  their  boyish 
days,  their  kinsfolk,  their  friends,  their  recollections, 
their  all.  Yet  all  was  left ;  even  while  their  heart-strings 
bled  at  the  parting,  all  was  left ;  and  a  stormy  sea,  a 
savage  waste,  and  a  fearful  destiny,  were  encountered  — 
for  Heaven,  and  for  you. 

It  is  easy  enough  to  praise  when  success  has  sancti 
fied  the  act ;  and  to  fancy  that  we,  too,  could  endure  a 
heavy  trial,  which  is  to  be  followed  by  a  rich  reward. 
But  before  the  deed  is  crowned,  while  the  doers  are  yet 


AMERICAN    INDEPENDENCE.  155 

about  us,  bearing  like  ourselves  the  common  infirmities 
of  the  flesh,  we  stand  aloof,  and  are  not  always  ready  to 
discern  the  spirit  that  sustains  and  exalts  them.  When 
centuries  of  experience  have  rolled  away,  we  laud  the 
exploit  on  which  we  might  have  frowned,  if  we  had 
lived  with  those  who  left  their  age  behind  to  achieve  it. 
We  read  of  empires  founded  and  people  redeemed,  of 
actions  embalmed  by  time  and  hallowed  by  romance ; 
and  our  hearts  leap  at  the  lofty  recital ;  we  feel  it  would 
be  a  glorious  thing  to  snatch  the  laurels  of  immortal 
fame.  But  it  is  in  the  day  of  doubt,  when  the  result  is 
hidden  in  clouds,  when  danger  stands  in  every  path,  and 
death  is  lurking  in  every  corner ;  —  it  is  then,  that  the 
men  who  are  born  for  great  occasions  start  boldly  from 
the  world's  trembling  multitude,  and  swear  to  "  do  or 
die  ! " 

SUCH  men  were  they  who  peopled  these  shores.  Such 
men,  too,  were  they  who  preserved  them.  Of  these 
latter  giant  spirits,  who  battled  for  independence,  and  to 
the  remembrance  of  whose  deeds  this  day  is  peculiarly 
devoted,  we  are  to  recollect  that  destruction  awaited 
defeat.  They  were  "  rebels,"  obnoxious  to  the  fate  of 
"  rebels."  They  were  tearing  asunder  the  ties  of  loy 
alty,  and  hazarding  all  the  sweet  endearments  of  social 


156  AMERICAN   INDEPENDENCE. 

and  domestic  life.  They  were  unfriended,  weak  and 
wanting.  Going  thus  forth  against  a  powerful  and  vin 
dictive  foe,  what  could  they  dare  to  hope  ?  What  had 
they  not  to  dread  ?  They  could  not  tell  but  that  ven 
geance  would  hunt  them  down,  and  infamy  hang  its 
black  scutcheon  over  their  graves.  They  did  not  know 
that  the  angel  of  the  Lord  would  go  forth  with  them, 
and  smite  the  invaders  of  their  sanctuary.  They  did  not 
know  that  generation  after  generation  would  on  this  day 
rise  up  and  call  them  blessed  ;  that  the  sleeping  quarry 
would  leap  forth  to  pay  them  voiceless  homage ;  that 
their  names  would  be  handed  down,  from  father  to  son, 
the  penman's  theme  and  the  poet's  inspiration;  chal 
lenging,  through  countless  years,  the  gratitude  of  an 
emancipated  people,  and  the  plaudits  of  an  admiring 
world!  No!  They  knew  only  that  the  arm  which 
should  protect  was  oppressing  them,  —  and  they  shook 
it  off;  that  the  chalice  presented  to  their  lips  was  a  poi 
soned  one,  —  and  they  dashed  it  away.  They  knew 
only  that  a  rod  was  stretched  over  them  for  their  audac 
ity  ;  and  beneath  this  they  vowed  never  to  bend,  while  a 
single  pulse  could  beat  the  larum  to  "  rebellion."  That 
rod  must  be  broken,  or  they  must  bleed.  And  it  was 
broken !  Led  on  by  their  Washington,  the  heroes  went 
forth.  Clothed  in  the  panoply  of  a  righteous  cause, 


AMERICAN    INDEPENDENCE.  157 

they  went  forth  boldly.  Guided  and  guarded  by  a  good 
Providence,  they  went  forth  triumphantly.  They  labored 
that  we  might  find  rest ;  they  fought  that  we  might 
enjoy  peace  ;  they  conquered  that  we  might  inherit  free 
dom  ! 

You  will  not  now  expect  a  detail  of  the  actions  of  that 
eventful  struggle.  To  the  annalists  of  your  country 
belongs  the  pleasing  task  of  tracing  the  progress  of  a 
revolution,  the  purest  in  its  origin,  and  the  most  stupen 
dous  in  its  consequences,  that  ever  gladdened  the  world. 
To  their  fidelity  we  commit  the  wisdom  which  planned, 
and  the  valor  which  accomplished  it.  The  dust  of  every 
contested  mound,  of  every  rescued  plain,  will  whisper  to 
them  their  duty,  for  it  is  dust  that  breathed  and  bled ; 
the  hallowed  dust  of  men  who  would  be  free,  or  nothing. 

There,  in  the  sweet  hour  of  eventide,  the  child  of 
sentiment  will  linger,  and  conjure  up  their  martyr 
forms.  Heroes,  with  their  garments  rolled  in  blood,  will 
marshal  round  him.  The  thrilling  fife-note,  the  drum's 
heart-kindling  beat,  will  again  run  down  the  shadowy 
ranks ;  the  short,  commanding  word,  the  fatal  volley, 
the  dull  death-groan,  the  glad  hurrah !  again  will  break 
on  his  cheated  ear.  The  battle  that  sealed  his  country's 
fate,  his  country's  freedom,  will  rage  before  him  in  all 


158  AMERICAN    INDEPENDENCE. 

its  dreadful  splendor.  And  when  the  airy  pageant  of 
his  fancy  fades  in  the  gathering  mists,  he  will  turn  his 
footsteps  from  the  sacred  field,  with  a  warmer  gratitude 
and  a  deeper  reverence  for  the  gallant  spirits  who  re 
signed  dear  life  in  defence  of  life's  dearest  blessing. 

THE  "  feelings,  manners,  and  principles,"  which  led  to 
the  Declaration  of  the  Fourth  of  July,  '76,  shine  forth  in 
the  memorable  language  of  its  great  author.  He  and 
his  bold  brethren  proclaimed  that  all  men  were  created 
equal,  and  endowed  by  their  Creator  with  the  right  of 
liberty;  that,  for  the  security  of  this  right,  government 
was  instituted,  and  that,  when  it  violated  its  trust,  the 
governed  might  abolish  it.  That  crisis,  they  declared, 
had  arrived ;  and  the  injuries  and  usurpations  of  the 
parent  country  were  no  longer  to  be  endured.  Recount 
ing  the  dark  catalogue  of  abuses  which  they  had  suf 
fered,  and  appealing  to  the  Supreme  Judge  of  the  world 
for  the  rectitude  of  their  intentions,  in  the  name  and  by 
the  authority  of  the  People,  the  only  fountain  of  legiti 
mate  power,  they  shook  off  forever  their  allegiance  to 
the  British  crown,  and  pronounced  the  united  colonies 
an  independent  nation ! 

What  their  "feelings,  manners  and  principles,"  led 
them  to  publish,  their  wisdom,  valor  and  perseverance, 


AMERICAN    INDEPENDENCE.  159 

enabled  them  to  establish.  The  blessings  secured  by 
the  Pilgrims  and  the  Patriots  Jiave  descended  to  us.  In 
the  virtue  and  intelligence  of  the  inheritors  we  confide 
for  their  duration.  They  who  attained  them  have  left 
us  their  example,  and  bequeathed  us  their  blood.  We 
shall  never  forget  the  one,  unless  we  prove  recreant  to 
the  other.  On  the  Doric  columns  of  religious  and  civil 
liberty  a  majestic  temple  has  been  reared,  and  they  who 
dwell  within  its  walls  will  never  bow  in  bondage  to  man, 
till  they  forget  to  bend  in  reverence  to  God. 

THE  achievement  of  American  independence  was  not 
merely  the  separation  of  a  few  obscure  colonies  from 
their  parent  realm  ;  it  was  the  practical  annunciation  to 
created  man  that  he  was  created  free !  and  it  will  stand 
in  history  the  epoch  from  which  to  compute  the  real 
duration  of  political  liberty.  Intolerance  and  tyranny 
had  for  ages  leagued  to  keep  their  victim  down.  While 
the  former  could  remain  the  pious  guardian  of  his  con 
science,  the  latter  knew  it  had  nothing  to  fear  from  his 
courage.  He  was  theirs,  soul  and  body.  His  intellect 
ual  energies  were  paralyzed,  that  he  might  not  behold 
the  corruptions  of  the  church  ;  and  his  physical  powers 
were  fettered,  that  he  should  not  rise  up  against  the 
abuses  of  the  state.  Thus  centuries  of  darkness  rolled 


360  AMERICAN   INDEPENDENCE. 

away.  Light,  indeed,  broke  from  time  to  time ;  but  it 
only  served  to  show  the  surrounding  clouds ;  —  bright 
stars,  here  and  there,  looked  out ;  but  they  were  the 
stars  of  a  gloomy  night.  At  length,  the  morning 
dawned,  when  one  generation  of  your  ancestors  willed 
that  none  but  their  Maker  should  guide  them  in  their 
duty  as  Christians ;  and  the  perfect  day  shone  forth, 
when  another  declared  that  from  none  but  their  Maker 
would  they  derive  their  immunities  as  men. 

IF,  in  remembering  the  oppressed,  you  think  the 
oppressors  ought  not  to  be  forgotten,  I  might  urge  that 
the  splendid  result  of  the  great  struggle  should  fully 
reconcile  us  to  the  madness  of  those  who  rendered  that 
struggle  necessary.  We  may  forgive  the  presumption 
which  "  declared  "  its  right  "  to  bind  the  American  Col 
onies,"  for  it  was  wofully  expiated  by  the  humiliation 
which  "acknowledged"  those  same  "American  Colo 
nies  "  to  be  "  Sovereign  and  Independent  States."  The 
immediate  workers,  too,  of  that  political  iniquity  have 
passed  away.  The  mildew  of  shame  will  forever  feed 
upon  their  memories  ;  —  a  brand  has  been  set  upon  their 
deeds,  that  even  Time's  all-gnawing  tooth  can  never 
destroy.  But  they  have  passed  away ;  and  of  all  the 
millions  they  misruled,  the  millions  they  would  have 


AMERICAN    INDEPENDENCE.  161 

misruled,  how  few  remain!  Another  race  is  there  to 
lament  the  folly,  another  here  to  magnify  the  wisdom, 
that  cut  the  knot  of  empire.  Shall  these  inherit  and 
entail  everlasting  enmity  ?  Like  the  Carthaginian  Ham- 
ilcar,  shall  we  come  up  hither  with  our  children,  and  on 
this  holy  altar  swear  the  pagan  oath  of  undying  hate  ? 
Even  our  goaded  fathers  disdained  this.  Let  us  fulfil 
their  words,  and  prove  to  the  people  of  England,  that, 
"  in  peace,"  we  know  how  to  treat  them  "  as  friends." 
They  have  been  twice  told  that,  "  in  war,"  we  know  how 
to  meet  them  "  as  enemies ;"  and  they  will  hardly  ask 
another  lesson,  for  it  may  be,  that,  when  the  third  trum 
pet  shall  sound,  a  voice  will  echo  along  their  sea-girt 
cliffs  —  »  The  Glory  has  departed ! " 

Some  few  of  their  degenerate  ones,  tainting  the  bowers 
where  they  sit,  decry  the  growing  greatness  of  a  land 
they  will  not  love;  and  others,  after  eating  from  our 
basket,  and  drinking  from  our  cup,  go  home  to  pour  forth 
the  senseless  libel  against  a  people  at  whose  firesides 
they  were  warmed.  But  a  few  pens  dipped  in  gall  will 
not  retard  our  progress ;  let  not  a  few  tongues,  festering 
in  falsehood,  disturb  our  repose.  We  have  those  among 
us  who  are  able  both  to  pare  the  talons  of  the  kite  and 
pull  out  the  fangs  of  the  viper;  who  can  lay  bare,  for  the 
disgust  of  all  good  men,  the  gangrene  of  the  insolent 


162  AMERICAN    INDEPENDENCE. 

reviewer,  and  inflict  such  a  cruel  mark  on  the  back  of 
the  mortified  runaway,  as  will  long  take  from  him  the 
blessed  privilege  of  being  forgotten. 

These  rude  detractors  speak  not,  we  trust,  the  feelings 
of  their  nation.  Time,  the  great  corrector,  is  there  fast 
enlightening  both  ruler  and  ruled.  They  are  treading 
in  our  steps,  even  ours,  and  are  gradually,  though 
slowly,  pulling  up  their  ancient  religious  and  political 
landmarks.  Yielding  to  the  liberal  spirit  of  the  age,  — 
a  spirit  born  and  fostered  here,  —  they  are  not  only 
loosening  their  own  long-riveted  shackles,  but  are  raising 
the  voice  of  encouragement,  and  extending  the  hand  of 
assistance,  to  the  "rebels"  of  other  climes. 

In  spite  of  all  that  has  passed,  we  owe  England  much ; 
and  even  on  this  occasion,  standing  in  the  midst  of  my 
generous-minded  countrymen,  I  may  fearlessly,  willingly, 
acknowledge  the  debt.  We  owe  England  much ;  — 
nothing  for  her  martyrdoms ;  nothing  for  her  proscrip 
tions  ;  nothing  for  the  innocent  blood  with  which  she 
has  stained  the  white  robes  of  religion  and  liberty ;  — 
these  claims  our  fathers  cancelled,  and  her  monarch 
rendered  them  and  theirs  a  full  acquittance  forever. 
But  for  the  living  treasures  of  her  mind,  garnered  up 
and  spread  abroad  for  centuries  by  her  great  and  gifted, 
who  that  has  drank  at  the  sparkling  streams  of  her 


AMERICAN   INDEPENDENCE.  163 

poetry,  who  that  has  drawn  from  the  deep  fountains  of 
her  wisdom,  who  that  speaks,  and  reads,  and  thinks  her 
language,  will  be  slow  to  own  his  obligation  ?  One  of 
your  purest  ascended  patriots,  he  who  compassed  sea 
and  land  for  Liberty ;  whose  early  voice  for  her  echoed 
round  yonder  consecrated  hall ;  whose  dying  accents  for 
her  went  up  in  solitude  and  suffering  from  the  ocean ;  — 
when  he  sat  down  to  bless,  with  the  last  token  of  a 
father's  remembrance,  the  son,  who  wears  his  mantle 
with  his  name,  —  bequeathed  him  the  recorded  lessons 
of  England's  best  and  wisest,  and  sealed  the  legacy  of 
love  with  a  prayer,  whose  full  accomplishment  we  live 
to  witness  —  "  that  the  spirit  of  Liberty  might  rest  upon 
him."* 

WHILE  we  bring  our  offerings  for  the  mighty  of  our 
own  land,  shall  we  not  remember  the  chivalrous  spirits 
of  other  shores,  who  shared  with  them  the  hour  of  weak 
ness  and  woe  ?  Pile  to  the  clouds  the  majestic  columns 
of  glory;  let  the  lips  of  those  who  can  "speak  well" 
hallow  each  spot  where  the  bones  of  your  bold  repose ; 
but  forget  not  those  who  with  your  bold  went  out  to 
battle. 

*See  Life  of  Josiah  Quincy,  Jr.,  by  his  son,  Josiah  Quincy,  Mayor 
of  Boston. 


164  AMERICAN    INDEPENDENCE. 

Among-  these  men  of  noble  daring,  there  was  one,  a 
young  and  gallant  stranger,  who  left  the  blushing  vine- 
hills  of  his  delightful  France.  The  people  whom  he 
came  to  succor  were  not  his  people ;  —  he  knew  them 
only  in  the  wicked  story  of  their  wrongs.  He  was  no 
mercenary  adventurer,  striving  for  the  spoil  of  the  van 
quished  ;  —  the  palace  acknowledged  him  for  its  lord,  and 
the  valley  yielded  him  its  increase.  He  was  no  name 
less  man,  staking  life  for  reputation ;  —  he  ranked  among 
nobles,  and  looked  unawed  upon  kings.  He  was  no 
friendless  outcast,  seeking  for  a  grave  to  hide  a  broken 
heart ;  —  he  was  girdled  by  the  companions  of  his  child 
hood  ;  his  kinsmen  were  about  him ;  his  wife  was  before 
him  ! 

Yet  from  all  these  he  turned  away.  Like  a  lofty  tree, 
that  shakes  down  its  green  glories,  to  battle  with  the 
winter  storm,  he  flung  aside  the  trappings  of  place  and 
pride,  to  crusade  for  Freedom,  in  Freedom's  holy  land. 
He  came  —  but  not  in  the  day  of  successful  "rebellion  ;" 
not  when  the  new-risen  sun  of  independence  had  burst 
the  cloud  of  time,  and  careered  to  its  place  in  the 
heavens.  He  came  when  darkness  curtained  the  hills, 
and  the  tempest  was  abroad  in  its  anger ;  —  when  the 
plough  stood  still  in  the  field  of  promise,  and  briers  cum 
bered  the  garden  of  beauty.  He  came  when  fathers 


AMERICAN    INDEPENDENCE. 


165 


were  dying,  and  mothers  were  weeping  over  them  ;  — 
when  the  wife  was  binding  up  the  gashed  bosom  of  her 
husband,  and  the  maiden  was  wiping  the  death-damp 
from  the  brow  of  her  lover.  He  came  when  the  brave 
began  to  fear  the  power  of  man,  and  the  pious  to  doubt 
the  favor  of  God. 

It  was  then  that  this  one  joined  the  ranks  of  a  revolted 
people.  Freedom's  little  phalanx  bade  him  a  grateful 
welcome.  With  them  he  courted  the  battle's  rage  ;  with 
theirs  his  arm  was  lifted,  with  theirs  his  blood  was  shed. 
Long  and  doubtful  was  the  conflict.  At  length,  kind 
Heaven  smiled  on  the  good  cause,  and  the  beaten  in 
vaders  fled.  The  profane  were  driven  from  the  temple 
of  Liberty ;  and  at  her  pure  shrine  the  Pilgrim  warrior, 
with  his  adored  commander,  knelt  and  worshipped. 
Leaving  there  his  offering,  the  incense  of  an  uncorrupted 
spirit,  he  at  length  rose  up,  and,  crowned  with  benedic 
tions,  turned  his  happy  feet  towards  his  long-deserted 
home. 

After  nearly  fifty  years,  that  one  has  come  again. 
Can  mortal  tongue  tell,  can  mortal  heart  feel,  the  sub 
limity  of  that  coming  ?  Exulting  millions  rejoice  in  it, 
and  their  loud,  long,  transporting  shout,  like  the  mingling 
of  many  winds,  rolls  on,  undying,  to  Freedom's  farthest 
mountains.  A  congregated  nation  comes  round  him. 


166  AMERICAN    INDEPENDENCE. 

Old  men  bless  him,  and  children  reverence  him.  The 
lovely  come  out  to  look  upon  him,  the  learned  deck  their 
halls  to  greet  him,  the  rulers  of  the  land  rise  up  to  do 
him  homage.  How  his  full  heart  labors  !  He  views  the 
rusting  trophies  of  departed  days,  he  treads  the  high 
places  where  his  brethren  moulder,  he  bends  before  the 
tomb  of  his  "Father;"  —  his  words  are  tears  —  the 
speech  of  sad  remembrance.  But  he  looks  round  upon  a 
ransomed  land  and  a  joyous  race  ;  he  beholds  the  bless 
ings  those  trophies  secured,  for  which  those  brethren 
died,  for  which  that  "Father"  lived; — and  again  his 
words  are  tears  —  the  eloquence  of  gratitude  and  joy. 

Spread  forth  creation  like  a  map;  bid  earth's  dead 
multitudes  revive;  —  and  of  all  the  pageant  splendors 
that  ever  glittered  to  the  sun,  when  looked  his  burning 
eye  on  a  sight  like  this  ?  Of  all  the  myriads  that  have 
come  and  gone,  what  cherished  minion  ever  ruled  an 
hour  like  this  ?  Many  have  struck  the  redeeming  blow 
for  their  own  freedom ;  but  who,  like  this  man,  has 
bared  his  bosom  in  the  cause  of  strangers  ?  Others  have 
lived  in  the  love  of  their  own  people  ;  but  who,  like  this 
man,  has  drank  his  sweetest  cup  of  welcome  with 
another?  Matchless  chief !  of  glory's  immortal  tablets, 
there  is  one  for  him,  for  him  alone !  Oblivion  shall 
never  shroud  its  splendor ;  the  everlasting  flame  of  lib- 


AMERICAN   INDEPENDENCE.  167 

erty  shall  guard  it,  that  the  generations  of  men  may 
repeat  the  name  recorded  there,  the  beloved  name  of 
Lafayette ! 

THEY  who  endured  the  burden  of  the  conflict  are  fast 
going  to  their  rest.  Every  passing  gale  sighs  over 
another  veteran's  grave ;  and,  ere  long,  the  last  sage,  and 
the  last  eld  soldier  of  the  revolution,  will  be  seen  no 
more.  Soon,  too  soon;  will  you  seek  in  vain  for  even 
one,  who  can  tell  you  of  that  day  of  stout  hearts  and 
strong  hands.  You  lately  beheld,  on  yonder  glorious 
hill,  a  group  of  ancient  men,  baring  their  gray  heads 
beneath  the  blaze  of  heaven ;  but  never  more  at  such  a 
sight  will  your  grateful  hearts  grow  soft.  These  will 
never  again  assemble  on  earth.  They  have  stood 
together  in  war,  they  have  congregated  in  peace ;  their 
next  meeting  will  be  in  the  fields  of  eternity.  They 
must  shortly  sleep  in  the  bosom  of  the  land  they  re 
deemed,  and  in  that  land's  renown  will  alone  be  their 
remembrance. 

Let  us  cherish  those  who  remain  to  link  the  living 
with  the  dead.  Of  these,  let  one  thought,  to-day,  rest 
on  him,  whose  pen  and  fame  this  day  has  rendered 
immortal.  With  him,  too,  now  that  the  bitter  feuds  of  a 
bitter  hour  are  forgotten,  we  may  associate  another,  the 

venerable  successor  of  our  Washington.     Here  broke  his 
12 


168  AMERICAN   INDEPENDENCE. 

morning  radiance,   and    here    yet   linger  his   evening 
beams. 

"  Sure  the  last  end  of  the  good  man  is  peace ! 
Night  dews  fall  not  more  gently  to  the  ground, 
Nor  weary,  worn-out  winds  expire  so  soft. 
Behold  him,  in  the  even-tide  of  life, 
A  life  well  spent ! 

By  unperceived  degrees  he  wears  away, 
Yet,  like  the  sun,  seems  larger  at  his  setting!" 

I  look  round  in  vain  for  two  of  your  exalted  patriots, 
who,  on  your  last  festival-day,  sat  here  in  the  midst  of 
you;  —  for  him,  who  then  worthily  wore  the  highest 
honors  you  could  bestow,  who  in  your  name  greeted 
your  nation's  guest,  and  took  him  by  the  hand  and 
wept ;  for  him,  too,  who  devoted  to  your  service  a  youth 
of  courage,  and  an  age  of  counsel;  who  long  ruled  over 
you  in  purity  and  wisdom,  and  then,  gently  shaking  off 
his  dignities,  retired  to  his  native  shades,  laden  with 
your  love.  They  have  both  passed  away,  and  the 
tongues  that  bade  the  "Apostle  of  Liberty"  welcome, 
will  never  bid  him  farewell. 

In  the  place  of  the  fathers  shall  be  the  children.  To 
the  seat  which  Eustis  and  Brooks  adorned,  the  people  of 
this  state  have  united  to  elevate  one,  whom  they  have 
often  delighted  to  honor.  He  sits  where  they  sat,  who 
were  laboring  in  the  vineyard  even  before  he  was  born. 


AMERICAN   INDEPENDENCE.  169 

His  name  adds  another  bright  stud  to  the  golden  scutch 
eon  of  the  commonwealth.  While  his  heart  warms  with 
honest  pride  at  the  confidence  so  flatteringly  reposed  in 
him,  he  will  wisely  remember  what  that  confidence  ex 
pects  from  him,  in  the  discharge  of  his  high  trust. 
Chosen  by  all,  he  will  govern  for  all;  and,  thus  sustain 
ing  his  well-earned  reputation,  may  he  live  long  in  the 
affection  of  a  generous  people  ! 

I  shall  not  omit,  on  this  occasion,  to  congratulate  you 
on  the  result  of  an  election,  which  has  recently  raised  to 
the  highest  station  in  your  republic  one  of  your  most 
distinguished  citizens.  While,  however,  the  ardent 
wishes  of  so  many  have  been  crowned  by  this  gratifying 
event,  it  is  not  to  be  forgotten,  that  there  are  those  among 
us,  men  of  pure  and  patriotic  minds,  who  responded  not 
Amen  to  the  general  voice.  I  should  be  ashamed  of  the 
feelings  which  would  insult  theirs  by  an  unworthy  exul 
tation.  The  illustrious  individual,  whom  the  represent 
atives  of  the  nation  have  pronounced  "most  worthy," 
would  be  the  first  to  frown  upon  it,  as  he  has  ever  been 
among  the  first  to  acknowledge  the  merits  of  his  exalted 
competitors.  To  the  high-minded  friends  of  these,  in 
common  with  us  all,  this  day  and  its  rites  belong ;  and 
I  cannot  violate  the  trust  confided  to  me,  I  will  not  sub 
ject  myself  to  a  pang  of  regret,  by  the  indulgence  of  Ian- 


170  AMERICAN   INDEPENDENCE. 

guage  which  should  send  a  single  being  from  this  place 
with  a  less  joyous  spirit  than  he  entered  it.  It  is  safer 
to  be  dull  than  bitter ;  and  I  would  rather  you  should  all 
be  willing  to  forget  the  labor  of  this  hour  in  charity,  than 
that  one  among  you  should  feel  compelled  to  remember 
it  in  unkindness. 

I  have  alluded  to  this  event,  not  merely  for  the  pur 
pose  of  obtruding  upon  you  the  expression  of  personal 
gratification,  but  because  it  offers  another  striking  proof 
of  the  stability  of  our  free  institutions.  Since  the  strife 
of  1800,  we  have  not  witnessed  so  violent  a  contest  as 
this  through  which  we  have  lately  passed;  yet  now, 
how  quiet  are  become  the  elements  of  discord  !  With  a 
praiseworthy  forbearance,  all,  or  nearly  all,  have  bowed 
to  the  expression  of  the  public  will,  and  seem  determined, 
in  the  words  of  one  of  his  accomplished  rivals,  to  judge 
the  ruler  of  the  nation  "  by  his  measures." 

While  this  spirit  triumphs,  we  have  nothing  to  dread 
from  the  animosities  of  party.  However  turbulent,  they 
will  be  harmless.  Like  the  commotions  of  the  physical 
world,  they  will  be  necessary.  Far  distant  be  the  day, 
when  it  must  be  said  of  this  country,  that  it  has  no  par 
ties  ;  for  it  must  be  also  said,  if  any  one  be  bold  enough 
to  say  it,  that  it  has  no  liberties.  Let  hawk-eyed  jeal 
ousy  be  forever  on  the  alert,  to  watch  the  footsteps  of 


AMERICAN    INDEPENDENCE.  171 

power.  Let  it  be  courteous  in  language,  but  stern  and 
unbending  in  principle.  Whoever  he  may  be,  wher 
ever  he  may  be,  that  would  strike  at  the  people's  rights, 
let  him  hear  the  people's  voice,  proclaiming  that  "  whom 
it  will,  it  can  set  up,  and  whom  it  will,  it  can  set  down." 
Fear  not  party  zeal  —  it  is  the  salt  of  your  existence. 
There  are  no  parties  under  a  despotism.  There,  no  man 
lingers  round  a  ballot-box ;  no  man  drinks  the  poison  of 
a  licentious  press ;  no  man  plots  treason  at  a  debating 
society ;  no  man  distracts  his  head  about  the  science  of 
government.  All  there  is  a  calm,  unruffled  sea  ;  —  even 
a  dead  sea  of  black  and  bitter  waters.  But  we  move 
upon  a  living  stream,  forever  pure,  forever  rolling.  Its 
mighty  tide  sometimes  flows  higher,  and  rushes  faster, 
than  its  wont,  and  as  it  bounds,  and  foams,  and  dashes 
along  in  sparkling  violence,  it  now  and  then  throws  up 
its  fleecy  cloud ;  but  this  rises  only  to  disappear,  and,  as 
it  fades  away  before  the  outbreaking  sunbeams  of  patri 
otism,  you  behold  upon  its  bosom  the  rainbow  signal  of 
returning  peace,  arching  up  to  declare  that  the  danger 
is  over. 

AND  now,  it  is  no  vain  speech  to  say,  the  eyes  of  the 
world  have  been  long  upon  us.  For  nearly  fifty  years 
we  have  run  the  glorious  race  of  empire.  Friends  have 


172  AMERICAN   INDEPENDENCE. 

gazed  in  fear,  and  foes  in  scorn ;  but  fear  is  lost  in  joy, 
and  scorn  is  turning  to  wonder.  The  great  experiment 
has  succeeded.  Mankind  behold  the  spectacle  of  a  land, 
whose  crown  is  wisdom,  whose  mitre  is  purity,  whose 
heraldry  is  talent ;  a  land,  where  public  sentiment  is 
supreme,  aud  where  every  man  may  erect  the  pyramid 
of  his  own  fair  fame.  They  behold,  they  believe,  and 
they  will  imitate.  The  day  is  coming,  when  thrones 
can  no  longer  be  supported  by  parchment  rolls.  It  is 
not  a  leaf  of  writing,  signed  and  sealed  by  three  frail, 
mortal  men,  that  can  forever  keep  down  suffering  mil 
lions  :  these  will  rise  ;  they  will  point  to  another  scroll ; 
to  that,  of  whose  bold  signers  our  Three  *  remain  ;  our 
three,  whose  "alliance"  was,  indeed,  a  "holy"  one,  for 
it  met  the  approving  smile  of  a  Holy  God  ! 

Many  must  suffer  defeat,  and  many  must  taste  of 
death,  but  Freedom's  battle  will  yet  be  fought  and  won. 
As  Heaven  unbinds  the  intellect  of  man,  his  own  right 
arm  will  rescue  his  body.  Liberty  will  yet  walk  abroad 
in  the  gardens  of  Europe.  Her  hand  will  pluck  the 
grapes  of  the  south,  her  eye  will  warm  the  snow-drifts 
of  the  north.  The  crescent  will  go  down  in  blood,  from 
that  "  bright  clime  of  battle  and  of  song,"  for  which  he 

*  John  Adams,  Charles  Carroll,  Thomas  Jefferson,  — the  surviving 
signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 


AMERICAN   INDEPENDENCE.  173 

died,  that  noble  Briton,  that  warrior  bard,  who,  like  the 
youthful  Lafayette,  uplifted  his  generous  arm  in  defence 
of  a  people  not  his  own. 

And  to  this  young  land  will  belong  the  praise.  The 
struggling  nations  point  to  our  example,  and  in  their 
own  tongues  repeat  the  cheering  language  of  our  sym 
pathy.  Already,  when  a  master-spirit  towers  among 
them,  they  call  him  —  their  Washington.  Along  the 
foot  of  the  Andes,  they  breathe  in  gratitude  the  name  of 
Clay;  —  by  the  ivy -buried  ruins  of  the  Parthenon,  they 
bless  the  eloquence  of  Webster  ! 

FELLOW-CITIZENS,  my  imperfect  task  is  ended.  I  have 
told  you  an  old  tale ;  but  you  will  forgive  that,  for  it  is 
one  of  your  country's  glory.  You  will  forgive  me  that  I 
have  spoken  of  the  simple  creatures  who  were  here  from 
the  beginning,  for  it  was  to  tell  you  how  much  had  been 
wrought  for  you  by  piety ;  you  will  forgive  me  that  I 
have  lingered  round  the  green  graves  of  the  dead,  for  it 
was  to  remind  you  how  much  had  been  achieved  for  you 
by  patriotism.  Forgive  me,  did  I  say  ?  Would  you 
have  forgiven  me,  if  I  had  not  done  this  ?  Could  I, 
ought  I,  to  have  wasted  this  happy  hour  in  cold  and 
doubtful  speculation,  while  your  bosoms  were  bounding 
with  the  holy  throb  of  gratitude  ?  O  no  —  it  was  not  for 


174  AMERICAN    INDEPENDENCE. 

that  you  came  up  hither.  The  groves  of  learning, 
the  halls  of  wisdom,  you  have  deserted  —  the  crowded 
mart,  the  chambers  of  beauty,  you  have  made  solitary  — 
that  here,  with  free,  exulting  voices,  before  the  only 
throne  at  which  the  free  can  bend,  your  hearts  might 
pour  forth  their  full,  gushing  tribute  to  the  benefactors 
of  your  country. 

On  that  country  Heaven's  highest  blessings  are  de 
scending.  I  would  not,  for  I  need  not,  use  the  language 
of  inflation ;  but  the  decree  has  gone  forth,  and  as  sure 
as  the  blue  arch  of  creation  is  in  beauty  above  us,  so 
sure  will  it  span  the  mightiest  dominion  that  ever  shook 
the  earth.  Imagination  cannot  outstrip  reality,  when  it 
contemplates  our  destinies  as  a  people.  Where  Nature 
slept  in  her  solitary  loveliness,  villages,  and  cities,  and 
states,  have  smiled  into  being.  A  gigantic  nation  has 
been  born.  Labor  and  art  are  adorning,  and  science  is 
exalting,  the  land  that  religion  sanctified,  and  liberty 
redeemed.  From  the  shores  to  the  mountains,  from  the 
regions  of  frost  to  the  valleys  of  eternal  spring,  myriads 
of  bold  and  understanding  men  are  uniting  to  strengthen 
a  government  of  their  own  choice,  and  perpetuate  the 
institutions  of  their  own  creation. 

The  germ  wafted  over  the  ocean  has  struck  its  deep 
root  in  the  earth,  and  raised  its  high  head  to  the  clouds. 


AMERICAN   INDEPENDENCE.  175 

Man  looked  in  scorn,  but  Heaven  beheld,  and  blessed 

Its  branchy  glories,  spreading  o'er  the  West. 

No  summer  gaude,  the  wonder  of  a  day, 

Born  but  to  bloom,  and  then  to  fade  away,  — 

A  giant  oak,  it  lifts  its  lofty  form, 

Greens  in  the  sun,  and  strengthens  in  the  storm. 

Long  in  its  shade  shall  children's  children  come, 

And  welcome  earth's  poor  wanderers  to  a  home. 

Long  shall  it  live,  and  every  blast  defy, 

Till  Time's  last  whirlwind  sweep  the  vaulted  sky. 


ON   INTEMPERANCE. 

AN    ADDRESS    DELIVERED    BEFORE    THE    MASSACHUSETTS    SOCIETY 
FOR    THE    SUPPRESSION     OF    INTEMPERANCE.       1827. 


IN  discharging  the  duty  which  has  been  confided  to 
me,  I  shall  use  great  plainness  of  speech.  The  themes 
that  lead  to  the  pleasant  fields  of  poetry,  and  tempt  the 
wanderer  to  linger  among  the  beautiful  creations  of 
fancy,  are  for  other  and  happier  seasons.  The  purpose 
for  which  we  have  assembled,  awakening,  as  it  does,  so 
many  painful  associations,  holds  no  communion  with  the 
bright  regions  of  romance  —  we  tread  the  cold,  gray 
waste  of  reality.  The  hour  before  us  is  one  of  severe 
and  fearful  reflection ;  and  it  becomes  him  who  has  been 
selected  to  occupy  it,  to  speak  the  words  of  truth  and 
soberness. 

We  have  met  to  mourn  over  a  calamity  which,  like 
one  of  the  plagues  sent  to  curse  ancient  Egypt,  has  come 
"  upon  us,  and  upon  our  people,  and  into  our  houses,  and 
into  our  bed-chambers,"  and  is  desolating  the  land.  We 
have  met  to  bear  our  testimony  against  drunkenness  — 


ON   INTEMPERANCE.  177 

and  we  call  upon  all  good  men  to  stand  forth,  and  cheer 
us  with  their  influence  and  example.  We  implore  them 
as  Christians,  as  patriots,  as  philanthropists,  to  join  in 
the  labor  and  the  praise  of  extirpating  a  vice  that  has 
taken  deep  root  in  our  nation,  spreading  to  its  remotest 
borders,  and  dropping  in  its  loveliest  paths  the  seeds  of 
misery,  disease,  and  death. 

The  spectacle  before  us  is  indeed  appalling.  The  vic 
tims  of  intemperance  are  wasting  around  us  in  frightful 
numbers.  Neither  sex,  nor  age,  nor  rank,  nor  talent,  is 
unsubdued  by  the  subtle  destroyer.  Man  falls  away 
from  his  glorious  destiny,  and  woman  is  degraded  from 
her  angel  station;  the  young  bow  their  faces  in  the 
beauty  of  their  promise,  the  mature  are  arrested  in  the 
pride  of  their  usefulness,  and  the  white  locks  of  the  old 
seek  the  tomb  in  disgrace ;  the  rich  are  overcome  in 
their  splendid  mansions,  the  poor  in  their  dreary  hovels ; 
the  arm  of  labor  is  paralyzed,  the  light  of  learning  is 
extinguished ;  genius  is  struck  down  in  his  eagle  career, 
and  the  holy  functions  of  piety  are  defiled  in  the  dust. 

Friends  —  we  may  not  sit  in  silence,  while  this  devas 
tation  is  going  on.  We  have  a  duty  to  perform ;  and 
what  we  would  do  effectually,  we  must  do  unitedly.  It 
is  time  for  us  to  speak  ;  —  the  ear  that  would  be  deaf  to 
the  kind  whisper  of  individual  remonstrance  must  hear 


178  ON    INTEMPERANCE. 

the  congregated  voices  of  an  alarmed  community. 
Above  all,  it  is  time  for  us  to  act ;  —  the  sin  that  shrouds 
itself  in  the  broad  mantle  of  custom,  custom  must  expose 
and  destroy.  Avast  proportion  of  the  cases  of  confirmed 
intemperance  may  be  traced,  not  so  much  to  any  innate 
depravedness,  as  to  the  crafty  workings  of  the  unreproved 
usages  of  society;  and  we,  who  continue  to  follow  these 
usages,  even  while  we  laugh  at  them,  are  ourselves  inoro 
or  less  chargeable  with  the  evils  we  lament  over,  and  are 
bound  to  exert  our  efforts  for  the  alleviation  of  them. 
I  say,  our  efforts  —  not  merely  those  which  are  exhausted 
in  assembling  to  hear  admonitory  addresses,  too  often 
only  criticised  and  forgotten;  in  showering  abroad  tracts, 
"  that  seem  to  pass  off  like  a  thick  flight  of  snow,  leaving 
no  trace  of  their  passage,  and  disappearing  where  they 
fall ;"  —  these  things,  certainly,  are  not  to  be  left  undone ; 
but  if  we  would  have  them  of  any  avail,  something  more 
must  be  done  also.  Least  of  all,  can  we  rely  on  the 
unassisted  arm  of  authority.  We  may  invoke  the  laws, 
but  we  may  as  well  invoke  the  dead.  Laws  can  only 
operate  when  the  mischief  is  done.  Prevention  is  what 
we  want  —  remedy  utterly  loses  its  character.  Indeed, 
though  we  very  properly  punish  the  thief  and  the  mur 
derer,  for  crimes  against  which  we  all  set  our  faces,  with 
what  consistency  can  we  punish  the  drunkard,  for  an 


ON    INTEMPERANCE.  179 

offence  to  which  our  own  daily  practices  naturally  lead 
him  ?  We  do  all  but  the  deed  ourselves  —  we  tread  on 
the  borders  of  the  forbidden  ground,  and  then  angrily 
cry  out  for  justice  on  him  who  goes  one  step  further. 
"  Enforce  the  laws  !  "  exclaims  some  virtuously-indignant 
citizen,  as  he  beholds  the  low-lorn  drunkard  shaming  the 
fair  face  of  day  —  "enforce  the  laws!"  and  with  these 
words  on  his  lips,  he  coolly  arranges  the  evening  club, 
from  the  carousings  of  which  if  he  retires  unexposed,  it 
is  because  the  shades  of  night  do  more  for  him  than  his 
own  prudence.  "  Suppress  drinking-houses  and  soda 
establishments  ! "  cries  the  anxious  father,  who  shudders 
lest  his  son  may  drink  there  of  the  waters  of  death, 
which,  however,  he  is  not  at  all  afraid  to  press  upon  his 
friends  at  home.  "  Why  does  not  government  impose  a 
tax  on  domestic  spirits  ? "  is  the  inquiry  of  one,  who  sits 
at  his  loaded  table,  boasting  of  the  age  of  his  foreign 
liquors,  and  recounting  the  various  voyages  that  have 
rendered  them  so  exquisite.  Truly,  there  is  a  little 
absurdity  in  these  things.  Besides,  we  may  fine  and 
imprison  a  poor  wretch,  now  and  then,  for  intoxication; 
out  it  will  go  only  a  little  way  to  reduce  the  evil  —  it 
will  not  teach  him  temperance.  We  may  lessen  the 
number  of  dram-shops  that  pour  forth  their  steams  of 
abomination  from  every  hole  and  corner;  but  we  all 


180  ON    INTEMPERANCE. 

know  that  many  a  man  becomes  a  drunkard  before  he 
sets  his  foot  within  one  —  it  will  not  teach  him  temper 
ance.  We  may  call  upon  our  rulers  to  lay  heavy  duties 
on  imported  and  domestic  liquors ;  but,  should  they  even 
be  courageous  enough  to  do  so,  it  would  only  tempt  the 
importer  to  become  a  smuggler,  and  instruct  the  distiller 
to  outwit  the  exciseman ;  —  perhaps  it  might  put  money 
into  the  public  treasury,  but  it  would  not  teach  men 
temperance.  No !  we  must  go  beyond  all  this  —  we 
must  first  minister  to  ourselves.  Before  we  revive  old 
laws,  we  must  abolish  old  customs.  Before  we  appeal  to 
the  government,  we  must  prove  our  sincerity  by  becom 
ing  our  own  legislators.  The  law  we  need  is  that  which 
must  speak  in  the  unwritten  majesty  of  public  opinion. 
The  people's  virtue  must  enact  it,  and  the  people's  prac 
tice  must  be  its  enforcement. 

But  it  may  be  said  that  much  which  the  friends  of 
Temperance  would  abolish  is  harmless;  and  that  we 
need  not  debar  ourselves  from  the  innocent  recreations 
of  social  and  convivial  life,  simply  because  some  are 
weak  enough  to  pervert  them.  It  is  undoubtedly  true, 
that  we  are  not  required  to  copy  the  macerating  austeri 
ties  of  the  monk's  cell,  for  fear  men  should  become 
gluttons,  nor  to  dip  our  cup  only  in  the  hermit's  spring, 
lest  they  should  turn  drunkards.  Our  Creator  has  not 


ON    INTEMPERANCE.  181 

spread  before  us  a  bounteous  table,  merely  to  forbid  our 
approach  to  it.  Still,  if  we  behold  that  there  are  many 
weak  enough  to  abuse  these  innocent  recreations,  and  to 
whom  an  indulgence  in  them  is  not  harmless  —  if  our 
example  serves  to  encourage  in  others  practices  which, 
we  cannot  deny,  inevitably  tend  to  their  destruction  — 
we  have  not  the  right,  the  moral  right,  to  make  them 
constant  stumbling-blocks  in  the  path  of  those  who  have 
more  feeling  and  less  philosophy  than  ourselves.  It 
becomes  us,  if  not,  in  common  charity,  to  set  them 
entirely  aside,  at  least,  as  well-wishers  to  society,  to 
inquire  how  far  we  are  justified  in  making  them,  as  too 
many  of  us  do,  the  daily  test  of  hospitality,  the  unerring 
touchstone  of  friendship,  the  universal  accompaniment 
of  all  social  intercourse. 

It  is  truly  astonishing  to  behold  how  completely  the 
habit  of  unnecessary  drinking  pervades  the  various 
classes  of  our  community.  In  one  way  or  another,  it  is 
their  morning  and  evening  devotion,  their  noonday  and 
midnight  sacrifice.  From  the  highest  grade  to  the 
lowest,  from  the  drawing-room  to  the  kitchen,  from  the 
gentleman  to  the  laborer,  down  descends  the  universal 
custom; — from  those  who  sit  long  at  the  wine  that  has 
been  rocked  upon  the  ocean,  and  ripened  beneath  an 
Indian  sky,  down  to  those  who  solace  themselves  with 


182  ON   INTEMPERANCE. 

the  fiery  liquor  that  has  cursed  no  other  shores  than  our 
own  —  down,  till  it  reaches  the  miserable  abode,  where 
the  father  and  mother  will  have  rum,  though  the  chil 
dren  cry  for  bread  —  down  to  the  bottom,  even  to  the 
prison-house,  the  forlorn  inmate  of  which  hails  him  his 
best  friend,  who  is  canning  enough  to  convey  to  him, 
undiscovered,  the  all-consoling,  the  all-corroding  poison. 
Young  men  must  express  the  warmth  of  their  mutual 
regard,  by  daily  and  nightly  libations  at  some  fashionable 
hotel  —  it  is  the  custom.  The  more  advanced  take  turns 
in  flinging  open  their  own  doors  to  each  other,  and  the 
purity  of  their  esteem  is  testified  by  the  number  of  bot 
tles  they  can  empty  together  —  it  is  the  custom.  The 
husband  deems  it  but  civil  to  commemorate  the  acciden 
tal  visit  of  his  acquaintance  by  a  glass  of  ancient  spirit, 
and  the  wife  holds  it  a  duty  to  celebrate  the  flying  call 
of  her  companion  with  a  taste  of  the  latest  liqueur  —  for 
this,  also,  is  the  custom.  The  interesting  gossipry  of 
every  little  evening  coterie  must  be  enlivened  with  the 
customary  cordial.  Custom  demands  that  idle  quarrels, 
perhaps  generated  over  a  friendly  cup,  another  friendly 
cup  must  drown.  Foolish  wagers  are  laid,  to  be  adjusted 
in  foolish  drinking  —  the  rich  citizen  stakes  a  dozen,  the 
poor  one  a  dram.  "  The  brisk  minor  panting  for  twenty- 
one"  baptizes  his  new-born  manhood  in  the  strong  drink 


ON    INTEMPERANCE.  183 

to  which  he  intends  training  it  up.  Births,  marriages, 
and  burials,  are  all  hallowed  by  strong  drink.  Anniver 
saries,  civic  festivities,  military  displays,  municipal  elec 
tions,  and  even  religious  ceremonials  are  nothing  with 
out  strong  drink.  The  political  ephemera  of  a  little 
noisy  day,  and  the  colossus  whose  footsteps  millions  wait 
upon,  must  alike  be  apotheosised  in  liquor.  A  rough- 
hewn  statesman  is  toasted  at,  and  drank  at,  to  his  face 
in  one  place,  while  his  boisterous  adversary  sits  through 
the  same  mummery  in  another.  Here,  in  their  brim 
ming  glasses,  the  adherents  of  some  successful  candidate 
mingle  their  congratulations ;  and  there,  in  like  manner, 
the  partisans  of  his  defeated  rival  forget  their  chagrin. 
Even  the  great  day  of  national  emancipation  is,  with  too 
many,  only  a  great  day  of  drinking ;  and  the  proud  song 
of  deliverance  is  trolled  from  the  lips  of  those  who  are 
bending  body  and  soul  to  a  viler  thraldom  than  that  from 
which  their  fathers  rescued  them. 

I  need  not  swell  the  catalogue  —  it  were  a  shorter  task 
to  tell  where  liquors  do  not  abound,  than  where  they  do. 
And  all  these  things  would  only  wake  a  smile,  but  that 
their  consequences  make  us  sad,  and  ought  to  make  us 
wise.  Is  it  not  here  that  the  mischief  we  mourn  over 
begins  ?  —  and  if  so,  ought  not  the  reformation  to  begin 
here  also  ?  Look  back  to  the  days  of  childhood.  Call 

13 


184  ON    INTEMPERANCE. 

up  round  you  the  little  groups  that  made  your  young 
hours  happy.  Follow  them  along,  from  year  to  year,  as 
you  and  they  grew  older.  Remember  how  this  one  and 
that  one,  the  generous  and  the  gifted,  dropped  off  from 
your  sides  into  the  grave.  Did  not  intemperance  drag 
them  down  ?  —  and  was  it  not  amid  the  innocent  recrea 
tions  of  society  that  they  were  first  ensnared  ?  Cannot 
many  a  parent,  many  a  wife,  many  a  husband,  here  find 
the  source  of  days  and  nights  of  anguish  ?  May  we  not 
select  some  youthful  victim  of  excess,  and  trace  him  back, 
step  by  step,  to  these  harmless  indulgences  —  these  inno 
cent  recreations  ?  Have  we  not  seen 

"  The  young  disease,  that  must  subdue  at  length, 
Grow  with  their  growth,  and  strengthen  with  their  strength  ?  " 

Could  he  repeat  —  alas!  he  cannot  —  his  mind  is  sunk 
in  his  body's  defilement  —  but  could  he  for  a  moment 
shake  off  his  lethargy,  and  repeat  to  us  the  story  of  his 
errors,  as  faithfully  as  he  looks  their  odious  consequences, 
he  would  tell  us  that  to  the  innocent  enjoyments  of  hos 
pitality  and  festivity  he  owes  his  ruin  —  that  the  war 
ranted  indulgences  of  convivial  life  led  the  way  to  the 
habitual  debauch,  which  has  finally  set  upon  him  the 
seal  whereby  all  men  may  know  the  drunkard.  He 
would  tell  us  that  he  was  once  worthy  of  a  happier  des- 


ON   INTEMPERANCE.  1S5 

tiny  —  that  he  stepped  on  life's  pathway,  rejoicing  in 
purity  and  hope  —  that  he  was  blessed  with  a  frame  for 
vigorous  action,  and  a  heart  for  the  world's  endearing 
charities  —  that  his  eye  loved  the  beauties  of  nature,  and 
his  spirit  adored  the  goodness  of  nature's  God.  But  he 
would  tell  us,  that,  in  an  evil  hour,  he  found  he  had 
fallen,  even  before  he  knew  he  was  in  danger;  —  that  the 
customs  of  society  had  first  enticed  him,  and  then  un 
fitted  him  for  its  duties  —  that  the  wreaths  they  had 
insidiously  flung  round  him  hardened  to  fetters,  and  he 
could  not  shake  them  off.  He  would  tell  us,  that  over 
the  first  discovery  of  his  fatal  lapse  his  alarmed  parents 
wept,  and  he  mingled  his  tears  with  theirs  —  that  as  he 
grew  more  unguarded  in  his  offence,  they  raised  the 
angry  voice  of  reproof,  and  he  braved  it  in  sullen  silence 
—  that  as  he  became  still  more  vile  and  brutish,  kindred 
and  friend  turned  their  cold  eyes  away  from  him,  and 
his  expiring  shame  felt  a  guilty  relief.  He  would  tell  us 
that,  at  length,  just  not  hated,  he  has  reached  the  lowest 
point  of  living  degradation  —  that  in  his  hours  of  frenzy 
he  is  locked  up  in  the  receptacle  for  the  infamous,  and  in 
his  lucid  intervals  let  out,  a  moving  beacon  to  warn  the 
virtuous.  Could  he  anticipate  the  end  of  his  unhappy 
story,  he  might  tell  us  that  yet  a  little  while,  and  his 
short  and  wretched  career  will  be  ended  —  that  the  father 


186  ON   INTEMPERANCE. 

who  hung  over  his  cradle,  weaving  bright  visions  of  his 
son's  future  greatness,  will  feel  a  dreadful  satisfaction  as 
he  gazes  upon  him  in  his  coffin  —  that  the  mother  who 
lulled  him  to  sleep  on  her  bosom,  and  joyed  to  watch  his 
waking,  will  not  dare  to  murmur  that  the  sleep  has  come 
upon  him  out  of  which  on  earth  he  will  never  awake  — 
that  the  grave  will  be  gladly  made  ready  to  receive  him 
—  that  as,  "  while  living,"  he  forfeited  "  fair  renown,"  so, 
"  doubly  dying,"  he  must 

"  Go  down 

To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung." 

But,  deplorably  as  the  frivolous  usages  of  society  show, 
in  their  effects  upon  the  young,  the  prospect  is  doubly 
terrific,  when  we  behold  their  ravages  among  the  more 
mature.  The  common  calamities  of  life  may  be  endured. 
Poverty,  sickness,  and  even  death,  may  be  met  —  but 
there  is  that  which,  while  it  brings  all  these  with  it,  is 
worse  than  all  these  together.  When  the  husband  and 
father  forgets  the  duties  he  once  delighted  to  fulfil,  and 
by  slow  degrees  becomes  the  creature  of  intemperance, 
there  enters  into  his  house  the  sorrow  that  rends  the 
spirit  —  that  cannot  be  alleviated,  that  will  not  be  com 
forted. 

It  is  here,  above  all,  where  she,  who  has  ventured 


ON    INTEMPERANCE.  187 

everything,  feels  that  everything  is  lost.  Woman,  silent- 
suffering,  devoted  woman,  here  bends  to  her  direst  afflic 
tion.  The  measure  of  her  woe  is,  in  truth,  full,  whose 
husband  is  a  drunkard.  Who  shall  protect  her,  when 
he  is  her  insulter,  her  oppressor?  What  shall  delight 
her,  when  she  shrinks  from  the  sight  of  his  face,  and 
trembles  at  the  sound  of  his  voice  ?  The  hearth  is 
indeed  dark,  that  he  has  made  desolate.  There,  through 
the  dull  midnight  hour,  her  griefs  are  whispered  to  her 
self,  her  bruised  heart  bleeds  in  secret.  There,  while 
the  cruel  author  of  her  distress  is  drowned  in  distant 
revelry,  she  holds  her  solitary  vigil,  waiting,  yet  dread 
ing  his  return,  that  will  only  wring  from  her,  by  his 
unkindness,  tears  even  more  scalding  than  those  she 
sheds  over  his  transgression.  To  fling  a  deeper  gloom 
across  the  present,  memory  turns  back,  and  broods  upon 
the  past.  Like  the  recollection  to  the  sun-stricken  pil 
grim,  of  the  cool  spring  that  he  drank  at  in  the  morning, 
the  joys  of  other  days  come  over  her,  as  if  only  to  mock 
her  parched  and  weary  spirit.  She  recalls  the  ardent 
lover,  whose  graces  won  her  from  the  home  of  her  in 
fancy —  the  enraptured  father,  who  bent  with  such 
delight  over  his  new-born  children  ;  and  she  asks  if  this 
can  really  be  he  —  this  sunken  being,  who  has  now 
nothing  for  her  but  the  sot's  disgusting  brutality  —  noth- 


188  ON   INTEMPERANCE. 

mg  for  those  abashed  and  trembling  children,  but  the 
sot's  disgusting  example  !  Can  we  wonder,  that,  amid 
these  agonizing  moments,  the  tender  cords  of  violated 
affection  should  snap  asunder  ?  that  the  scorned  and 
deserted  wife  should  confess,  "  there  is  no  killing  like 
that  which  kills  the  heart?"  that  though  it  would  have 
been  hard  for  her  to  kiss  for  the  last  time  the  cold  lips 
of  her  dead  husband,  and  lay  his  body  forever  in  the 
dust,  it  is  harder  to  behold  him  so  debasing  life,  that 
even  his  death  would  be  greeted  in  mercy  ?  Had  he 
died  in  the  light  of  his  goodness,  bequeathing  to  his 
family  the  inheritance  of  an  untarnished  name,  the  ex 
ample  of  virtues  that  should  blossom  for  his  sons  and 
daughters  from  the  tomb  —  though  she  would  have  wept 
bitterly  indeed,  the  tears  of  grief  would  not  have  been 
also  the  tears  of  shame.  But  to  behold  him,  fallen  away 
from  the  station  he  once  adorned,  degraded  from  emi 
nence  to  ignominy  —  at  home,  turning  his  dwelling  to 
darkness,  and  its  holy  endearments  to  mockery — abroad, 
thrust  from  the  companionship  of  the  worthy,  a  self- 
branded  outlaw  —  this  is  the  woe  that  the  wife  feels  is 
more  dreadful  than  death,  —  that  she  mourns  over  as 
worse  than  widowhood. 

There  is  yet  another  picture  behind,  from  the  exhibi 
tion  of  which  I  would  willingly  be  spared.     I  have  ven- 


ON   INTEMPERANCE.  189 

tured  to  point  to  those  who  daily  force  themselves  before 
the  world ;  but  there  is  one  whom  the  world  does  not 
know  of —  who  hides  herself  from  prying  eyes,  even  in 
the  innermost  sanctuary  of  the  domestic  temple.  Shall 
I  dare  to  rend  the  veil  that  hangs  between,  and  draw  her 
forth  ?  —  the  priestess  dying  amid  her  unholy  rites  — 
the  sacrificer  and  the  sacrifice  ?  O,  we  compass  sea  and 
land,  we  brave  danger  and  death,  to  snatch  the  poor  vic 
tim  of  heathen  superstition  from  the  burning  pile  —  and 
it  is  well ;  but  shall  we  not  also  save  the  lovely  ones  of 
our  own  household,  from  immolating  on  this  foul  altar, 
not  alone  the  perishing  body,  but  all  the  worshipped 
graces  of  her  sex  —  the  glorious  attributes  of  hallowed 
womanhood  ? 

Imagination's  gloomiest  reverie  never  conceived  of  a 
more  revolting  object  than  that  of  a  wife  and  mother 
defiling  in  her  own  person  the  fairest  work  of  her  God, 
and  setting  at  nought  the  holy  engagements  for  which 
He  created  her.  Her  husband  —  who  shall  heighten  his 
joys,  and  dissipate  his  cares,  and  alleviate  his  sorrows  ? 
She,  who  has  robbed  him  of  all  joy,  who  is  the  source  of 
his  deepest  care,  who  lives  his  sharpest  sorrow  ?  These 
are  indeed  the  wife's  delights  —  but  they  are  not  hers. 
Her  children  —  who  shall  watch  over  their  budding  vir 
tues,  and  pluck  up  the  young  weeds  of  passion  and  vice  ? 


190  ON    INTEMPERANCE. 

She,  in  whose  own  bosom  everything  beautiful  has  with 
ered,  everything  vile  grows  rank  ?  Who  shall  teach 
them  to  bend  their  little  knees  in  devotion,  and  repeat 
their  Saviour's  prayer  against  "  temptation  ?"  She,  who 
is  herself  temptation's  fettered  slave  ?  These  are  truly 
the  mother's  labors  —  but  they  are  not  hers.  Connubial 
love  and  maternal  tenderness  bloom  no  longer  for  her. 
A  worm  has  gnawed  into  her  heart,  that  dies  only  with 
its  prey  —  the  worm  Intemperance. 

These  are  not  the  imaginings  of  a  heated  fancy  —  you 
who  hear  me  know  that  they  are  not.  Nor  are  they  dis 
torted  illustrations  of  rare  and  solitary  cases,  which  cross 
us  so  seldom  that  they  are  wondered  at,  even  more  than 
they  are  deplored.  Your  own  observation  will  bear  me 
witness,  that  they  are  drawn  at  random,  from  the  too 
numerous  classes,  whose  talents  and  virtues  are  annually 
lost  to  their  friends  by  the  basilisk  charm  of  the  social 
cup.  You  behold  them  at  every  turn ;  —  happy  are  you, 
if  you  do  not  discover  in  them  once  valued  companions 
—  thrice  happy,  if  you  have  never  been  called  to  lament 
over  them  by  your  own  firesides. 

But  why  are  these  odious  portraits  hung  up  to  the 
sickening  gaze  ?  Have  the  originals  come  hither  to  look 
upon  them,  and  grow  ashamed  of  their  own  deformity? 
Can  all  the  homilies  of  the  pulpit  startle  him  who  has 


ON    INTEMPERANCE.  191 

been  blind  to  the  tears  of  affection,  and  deaf  to  the  prayer 
of  friendship,  and  shrunk  not  from  the  burning  touch  of 
shame?  No  —  \ve  dare  not  hope  to  reclaim  the  drunk 
ard  —  his  reformation  "  comes  unlocked  for,  if  it  comes 
at  all.'1  The  mortal  taint  is  upon  him,  —  in  his  blood, 
on  his  brain,  —  and  if  he  will,  he  must  die,  even  in  his 
drunkenness.  But  though  many  an  ill-fated  vessel  goes 
to  the  bottom,  men  do  not  forbear  to  light  up  the  beacon 
of  safety  —  there  are  yet  gallant  barks  in  the  offing,  and 
for  them  the  signal-fire  must  be  set  on  high.  There  are 
those  about  us,  now  vibrating  between  right  and  wrong 
—  they  may  be  snatched  from  the  woe  that  threatens 
them  ;  there  are  those  now  happy  in  the  sunshine  of 
temperance  —  they  may  live  to  crown  our  exertions ; 
there  are  the  multitudes,  not  yet  fallen,  because  not  as 
sailed;  the  strong  toilers  by  the  wayside,  the  busy  crafts 
men  of  life's  middle  walks,  the  loftier  aspirants  for  wealth 
and  distinction;  parents,  yet  the  centre  of  domestic  bliss; 
children,  still  the  pride  of  the  paternal  board ;  there  are 
the  generations  springing  up  around  us,  with  passions 
uncurbed,  and  principles  unestablished  —  those  who  are 
to  come  after  us,  and  fill  our  places,  and  hand  down  to 
their  posterity  the  virtues  and  vices  they  learn  of  us  — 
these  call  aloud  for  our  untiring  labors,  and,  by  the 
blessing  of  Heaven,  for  some  of  these  our  labors  shall 
not  be  in  vain. 


192  ON    INTEMPERANCE. 

ALTHOUGH  I  have  not  particularly  alluded  to  the 
effects  of  intemperance  on  the  lower  orders  of  society,  it 
is  by  no  means  because  the  intemperate  with  them  are 
less  numerous  than  may  be  found  among  the  higher 
classes  —  we  know  that  the  reverse  is  the  case.  Per 
sonal  observation  and  well-authenticated  documents  too 
plainly  prove,  that,  to  the  poor,  drunkenness  is  verily  the 
pestilence  walking  in  darkness,  and  the  destruction  wast 
ing  at  noonday.  If  they  can  find  money  for  nothing 
else,  they  can  find  it  for  the  liquid  fire  that  destroys 
them.  He  who  is  so  destitute  that  he  can  neither  clothe 
nor  feed  his  ragged  and  famishing  children,  is  rarely  so 
reduced  that  he  cannot  pay  for  the  guilty  indulgences  of 
the  dram-shop.  "  I  have  seen,"  says  one  of  my  prede 
cessors  in  this  duty  —  "I  have  seen  ardent  spirits,  more 
than  once,  form,  with  a  scanty  allowance  of  bread  and 
meat,  the  only  meal  of  an  almost  perishing  family.  I 
have  seen  a  mother  and  her  children,  hovering  in  the 
depth  of  winter  over  a  few  dying  embers,  half  naked  and 
half  starved,  bread  and  water  the  only  nourishment  of 
the  children,  bread  and  rum  of  the  parents.  I  have  seen 
a  little  child,  squalid  and  filthy,  pinched  with  cold  and 
want,  covered,  but  not  protected  from  the  inclemency  of 
winter,  by  a  few  tattered  garments,  her  bare  feet  on  the 
frozen  earth,  stealing  along  with  a  broken  pitcher,  to 


ON    INTEMPERANCE.  193 

bring  to  her  parents  the  liquor  which  was  to  serve  for 
the  morning's  repast  —  whilst  within  their  comfortless 
dwelling,  gladdened  by  no  blazing  hearth,  they  were 
waiting  in  bed,  with  a  drunkard's  longing,  for  that  which 
was  to  them  better  than  food,  clothing,  or  fire." 

I  might  warn  the  poor  man  of  the  inevitable  conse 
quences  of  these  besotting  habits.  I  might  tell  him  that 
they  will  steal  away  all  his  homely  comforts,  load  him 
with  debts,  lead  him  to  the  jail,  stretch  him  on  the  bed 
of  sickness,  arid  finally  press  him  down  to  an  untimely 
grave,  while  his  wife  and  children  must  be  left  behind, 
the  shivering  pensioners  of  a  grudging  world's  cold 
bounty.  But  I  am  not  now  addressing  the  poor.  I 
speak  to  you,  whom  the  poor  are  proud  to  copy.  By 
portraying  some  of  the  evils  that  are  thinning  your  own 
ranks,  by  tracing  them  to  what  I  believe  is  their  origin, 
and  pointing  to  what  I  think  is  the  only  certain  relief 
for  them,  I  would  incite  you  to  a  reformation,  that  shall 
not  only  reach  those  around  you,  but  descend  to  those 
below.  If  the  present  race  is  too  far  gone,  you  may  at 
least  save  some  of  that  which  is  to  come.  Man  has 
been  truly  termed  the  creature  of  imitation,  and  it  is 
equally  true,  that  his  disposition  to  imitate  is  somewhat 
aspiring.  He  will  ape  a  lofty  vice,  rather  than  emulate 
a  lowly  virtue.  This  inclination,  strong  enough  every- 


194  ON    INTEMPERANCE. 

where,  is  peculiarly  powerful  in  a  country  the  very  insti 
tutions  of  which  serve  to  feed  it.  The  pleasant  doctrine 
that  all  men  are  free  and  equal  is  thoroughly  understood, 
at  least  in  one  sense,  by  those  whom  its  exciting  spirit 
never  roused  to  great  and  noble  action. 

In  this  view  our  subject  assumes  a  fearful  political 
importance.  The  ruinous  consequences  of  wide-spread 
intemperance  to  a  people  governing  themselves,  can 
hardly  be  overrated.  If  there  be  on  earth  one  nation 
more  than  another,  whose  institutions  must  draw  their 
life-blood  from  the  individual  purity  of  its  citizens,  that 
nation  is  our  own.  Rulers  by  divine  right,  and  nobles 
by  hereditary  succession,  may,  perhaps,  tolerate  with 
impunity  those  depraving  indulgences  which  keep  the 
great  mass  abject.  Where  the  many  enjoy  little  or  no 
power,  it  were  a  trick  of  policy  to  wink  at  those  ener 
vating  vices  which  would  rob  them  of  both  the  ability 
and  the  inclination  to  enjoy  it.  But  in  our  country, 
where  almost  every  man,  however  humble,  bears  to  the 
omnipotent  ballot-box  his  full  portion  of  the  sovereignty 
—  where,  at  regular  periods,  the  ministers  of  authority, 
who  went  forth  to  rule,  return  to  be  ruled,  and  lay  down 
their  dignities  at  the  feet  of  the  monarch  multitude  — 
where,  in  short,  public  sentiment  is  the  absolute  lever 
that  moves  the  political  world  —  the  purity  of  the  people 


ON   INTEMPERANCE.  195 

is  the  rock  of  political  safety.  We  may  boast,  if  we 
please,  of  our  exalted  privileges,  and  fondly  imagine  that 
they  will  be  eternal  —  but  whenever  those  vices  shall 
abound  which  undeniably  tend  to  debasement,  steeping 
the  poor  and  the  ignorant  still  lower  in  poverty  and  igno 
rance,  and  thereby  destroying  that  wholesome  mental 
equality  which  can  alone  sustain  a  self-ruled  people  —  it 
will  be  found,  by  woful  experience,  that  our  happy  sys 
tem  of  government,  the  best  ever  devised  for  the  intelli 
gent  and  good,  is  the  very  worst  to  be  intrusted  to  the 
degraded  and  vicious.  The  great  majority  will  then 
truly  become  a  many-headed  monster,  to  be  tamed  and 
led  at  will.  The  tremendous  power  of  suffrage,  like  the 
strength  of  the  eyeless  Nazarite,  so  far  from  being  their 
protection,  will  but  serve  to  pull  down  upon  their  heads 
the  temple  their  ancestors  reared  for  them.  Caballers 
and  demagogues  will  find  it  an  easy  task  to  delude  those 
who  have  deluded  themselves ;  and  the  freedom  of  the 
people  will  finally  be  buried  in  the  grave  of  their  virtues. 
National  greatness  may  survive  —  splendid  talents  and 
brilliant  victories  may  fling  their  delusive  lustre  abroad; 
—  these  can  illumine  the  darkness  that  hangs  round  the 
throne  of  a  despot  —  but  their  light  will  be  like  the  bale 
ful  flame  that  hovers  over  decaying  mortality,  and  tells 
of  the  corruption  that  festers  beneath.  The  immortal 


196  ON    INTEMPERANCE. 

spirit  will  have  gone  ;  and  along  our  shores,  and  among 
our  hills  —  those  shores  made  sacred  by  the  sepulchre 
of  the  Pilgrim,  those  hills  hallowed  by  the  uncoffined 
bones  of  the  Patriot  —  even  there,  in  the  ears  of  their 
degenerate  descendants,  shall  ring  the  last  knell  of 
departed  Liberty. 

I  would  not,  even  in  anticipation,  do  my  country 
injustice.  I  glory  in  my  citizenship.  With  the  excep 
tion  of  the  one  hateful  vice,  which  is  spreading  its  rav 
ages  far  and  wide,  we  may  proudly  challenge  a  compar 
ison  with  the  dominions  of  the  earth.  The  present, 
however,  is  not  a  time  for  the  silken  phrases  of  self-com 
mendation.  This  gross  and  besetting  sin,  the  parent  of 
so  many  others,  is  a  national  blot ;  and  if  it  shows  the 
darker  on  our  scutcheon,  that  it  pollutes  so  fair  a  surface, 
it  becomes  more  imperiously  the  duty  of  every  patriotic 
citizen  to  assist  in  removing  it.  Let  not  our  glory  and 
disgrace  go  hand  in  hand.  When  we  exultingly  pro 
claim  to  the  decrepit  communities  of  the  old  world,  how 
far  we  have  outstripped  them  in  liberty,  let  them  not  be 
able  to  tell  us  that  we  have  also  outstripped  them  in  a 
vice  which  is  liberty's  most  deadly  foe.  If  that  be  true, 
which  we  have  been  told,  let  it  teach  us  humility,  and 
excite  us  to  amendment  —  that  though  but  two  hundred 
years  a  people,  but  fifty  years  a  nation,  we  have  already, 


ON   INTEMPERANCE.  197 

in  this  particular,  attained  a  wicked  preeminence  over 
kingdoms  that  had  seen  centuries  come  and  depart,  long 
before  the  white  sail  of  Columbus  caught  the  inspiring 
winds  of  our  western  sky. 

I  have  thus  imperfectly  touched  upon  some  of  the 
evils  of  intemperance,  as  they  affect  man  in  the  life  that 
is  —  bat  how  much  more  unspeakable  do  they  become, 
when  we  consider  him  as  a  being  born  to  live  forever ! 
It  has  been  remarked  of  other  sins,  that,  as  we  grow  old, 
if  we  do  not  leave  them,  at  least  they  leave  us.  Time 
cools  the  hot  blood  of  youth,  and  philosophy  assumes  the 
reins  that  passion  has  resigned.  But  this  vampyre 
vice  clings  the  closer  as  it  draws  its  captive  nearer  to  the 
grave ;  and,  when  it  has  destroyed  the  body,  sends  the 
stupefied  soul  to  its  dread  account,  all  reeking  in  its 
unrepented-of  enormity. 

Is  it  not  wonderful,  that  a  creature  glowing  with  the 
divinity  of  his  Creator  —  endowed  with  energies  to  con 
trol  the  things  of  one  world,  and  with  attributes  that' 
capacitate  him  for  the  joys  of  another — able  to  bind  to 
his  will  the  elements  that  surround  him,  making  the 
winds  and  the  waters  the  ministers  of  his  pleasure  — 
rifling  the  caverns  of  the  earth  of  their  unsunned  wealth 
—  tracing  the  stars  as  they  circle  away  to  their  hiding- 
places  —  exploring  the  unbounded  realms  of  creation,  till 


198  ON    INTEMPERANCE. 

he  stands  in  speechless  homage  at  the  footstool  of  crea 
tion's  awful  Founder  —  is  it  not  indeed  wonderful,  that 
such  a  being,  so  rarely  endowed,  should  dare  to  quench 
the  sacred  fire  that  has  descended  upon  him  —  cumber 
ing  the  earth  he  was  born  to  subdue,  and  forfeiting  the 
heaven  he  was  ordained  to  enjoy  ? 

But  I  am  here  invading  the  holy  province  of  others. 
This  is  your  field,  ye  anointed  ministers  of  Him  who 
went  about  doing  good.  Ye  have  the  privilege,  ye  have 
the  command,  to  speak  to  man  of  his  immortal  destiny. 
Is  it  glorious  to  sway  the  human  mind,  and  is  it  not 
more  glorious  to  render  it  worth  being  swayed  ?  Is  it 
important  to  make  men  believe  right,  and  is  it  not  still 
more  important  to  make  them  act  well?  Is  it  your  duty 
to  point  them  to  heaven,  and  is  it  not  doubly  your  duty 
to  fit  them  for  heaven's  enjoyments?  Ye  would  throw 
light  on  the  page  that  Infinite  Wisdom  has  shrouded  in 
darkness — enforce  that,  also,  which  he  who  runs  can 
comprehend.  Ye  can  sharpen  and  burnish  your  weapons, 
and  set  yourselves  in  battle-array  against  each  other,  in 
defence  of  your  various  creeds  —  unite  your  conflicting 
powers,  and  overthrow  the  giant  sin  that  wars  with  every 
creed.  Ye  would  open  the  eyes  of  the  blind  heathen, 
and  snatch  him  from  the  blood-dripping  car  of  his  idol  — 
strive  also  to  convert  the  Christian  idolater,  and  save 


ON    INTEMPERANCE.  199 

him  from  the  wrath  of  a  demon  whose  touch  is  worse 
than  death.  Warn  him  of  the  vice  that  eats  into  the 
soul.  Declare  unto  him  the  doom  pronounced  upon  the 
drunkard.  With  you  are  the  hearts  of  the  old  and  the 
young.  On  you  men  look  with  love,  for  you  are  asso 
ciated  with  their  joys  and  their  sorrows ;  to  you  they 
listen  with  reverence,  for  you  bear  the  delegated  majesty 
of  the  Most  High.  Be  ye,  then,  faithful  and  fearless  in 
this  thing  —  in  what  ye  say — >in  what  ye  do.  "  Take 
the  censer  of  fire  in  your  hands,  and  go  forth  into  the 
camp,  and  stand  between  the  living  and  the  dead,  and 
stay  this  plague  which  rages  among  the  people." 

AND,  now,  is  it  a  hard  thing  that  we  ask  each  other  to 
perform  ?  There  are  those  who  never  fear  to  do  that 
which  they  are  conscious  is  wrong  —  shall  we  be  afraid 
to  do  that  which  we  know  to  be  right  ?  Martyrs  have 
calmly  laid  their  heads  on  the  block,  for  opinions  the 
truth  of  which  many  will  always  deny  —  shall  we  hesi 
tate  to  protest  against  habits,  the  baneful  consequences 
of  which  all  acknowledge  ?  Men  waste  time,  and  talent, 
and  money,  in  schemes  which,  though  successful,  end  in 
vexation  and  vanity  —  are  we  unwilling  to  make  an 
effort  for  the  happiness  of  those  about  us,  which,  even  if 
unsuccessful,  will  bring  us  the  reward  of  self-approba- 

14 


200  ON    INTEMPERANCE. 

tion  ?  We  love  to  remember  what  our  fathers  did  and 
suffered,  in  the  ages  gone  by,  and  we  extol  the  holy  and 
the  bold  achievements  which  secured  to  us  a  lovely 
heritage  —  shall  our  children  look  back  to  our  day,  and 
find  nothing  to  reverence  in  us  ?  Shall  we  not  at  least 
bequeath  them  lessons  of  purity,  examples  of  temper 
ance  ?  These  may  not  win  for  us  the  page  of  history  — 
the  orator  may  not  sound  our  praise  in  high  places  — 
nor  the  poet  remember  us  in  his  glowing  anthem ;  —  but 
the  small,  sweet  voice  of  the  moralist  will  testify  of  us  — 
the  blessings  of  them  that  were  ready  to  perish  may  rest 
upon  us — we  shall  have  that  within  "which  passeth 
show." 

Let  me,  then,  again  press  you  to  the  enforcement  of  the 
only  remedy  for  this  destroying  sin.  If  we  would  really 
banish  intemperance,  we  must  close  the  hundred  secret 
avenues  through  which  it  winds  its  way.  We  must 
turn  our  eyes  from  the  pleasant  shapes  it  assumes  in  its 
infancy,  if  we  would  not  look  upon  it  in  all  its  full-grown 
bloatedness.  We  must,  in  a  word,  give  up  drinking  as 
a  necessary  fashion,  if  we  would  get  rid  of  drunkenness 
as  a  necessary  vice.  This,  too,  unlike  some  good  deeds, 
must  be  done  before  men  —  in  the  sight  of  our  families, 
our  friends,  and  the  world.  Our  children,  who  seldom 
think  that  can  be  wrong  which  their  parents  indulge  in, 


ON    INTEMPERANCE.  201 

must  no  longer  behold  the  strange  fire  an  every-day 
household  sacrifice.  Our  neighbors,  who  are  anxious  to 
interchange  with  us  the  courtesies  of  hospitality,  must 
from  us  learn  moral  boldness  enough  to  thrust  the  insin 
uating  foe  from  their  tables  and  firesides.  Wherever 
our  influence  can  be  felt,  it  must  be  judiciously  exerted. 
It  must  reach  the  young  —  who  enter  upon  life  with  a 
blind  deference  for  their  seniors,  and  imbibe  their  habits 
long  before  they  are  able  to  weigh  the  tendency  of  them. 
It  must  descend  to  the  poor  —  who  are  ever  ready  to  copy 
the  manners  and  practices  of  those  above  them.  It  must 
spread  round  to  the  crowds  of  imitators,  whose  most 
anxious  care  is,  to  live  like  other  people  —  and  who  deem 
it  a  very  important  study  to  find  out  what  is  customary, 
without  ever  troubling  themselves  to  ask  whether  it  be 
right.  In  this  way,  in  this  way  alone,  can  the  good 
work  commence  —  and  if  then  there  be  anything  left  for 
the  law,  let  those  who  sit  in  the  seats  of  authority  look 
to  it.  They  will  not  fear  to  follow  where  we  dare  to 
lead. 

Every  man  is  a  member  of  some  little  brotherhood,  in 
which  his  influence  will  be  felt,  his  actions  imitated.  It 
is  here  that  even  the  humblest  may  do  much ;  —  not  by 
ill-timed  and  boisterous  denunciations  against  all  who 
may  feel  the  importance  of  the  subject  less  deeply  than 


202  ON    INTEMPERANCE. 

himself — but  by  a  meek  and  unostentatious,  yet  firm 
and  consistent  rejection  of  those  daily  and  nightly  indul 
gences  which  lead  to  the  misery  we  deplore.  He  must 
remember  that  they  whom  he  would  gain  over  are  not 
so  wicked  as  they  are  weak ;  and  that  it  is  not  in  the 
severe  capacity  of  a  judge  that  his  labors  are  required, 
but  in  the  more  endearing  character  of  a  friend.  His 
strongest  persuasions  must  be  those  of  practice.  There 
is  "  no  lecture  so  eloquent  as  the  silent  lesson  of  a  spot 
less  example."  He  may  not  witness  sudden  and  mirac 
ulous  conversions  to  his  faith  —  he  may  even  sometimes 
hear  the  coarse  taunt  of  the  scorner,  against  both  his 
faith  and  his  works.  They  who  are  unwilling  to  do 
anything,  will  tell  him  that  nothing  can  be  done.  They 
who  fold  up  their  arms  in  contented  apathy,  because  the 
viper  has  not  crawled  into  their  bowers,  will  assure  him 
that  nothing  need  be  done.  They  who  deem  that  the 
sum  of  human  duty  is  merely  to  provide  for  one's  own 
household,  and  respect  the  laws  of  the  land,  will  try  to 
convince  him  that  nothing  ought  to  be  done.  But  let 
not  all  this  shake  the  lover  of  temperance  from  his  pur 
pose  —  there  is  much  that  should  be  done,  and  if  he  will 
persevere,  at  length  much  may  be  done.  By  time  and 
patience,  it  has  been  beautifully  observed,  the  leaf  of  the 
mulberry-tree  becomes  satin.  In  good  season  he  will 


ON    INTEMPERANCE.  203 

behold  the  harvest  of  his  labors  ripening  around  him. 
His  gentle  entreaties,  his  mild  and  judicious  zeal, 

"Each  virtuous  mind  will  wake, 
As  the  small  pebble  stirs  the  peaceful  lake. 
The  centre  moved,  a  circle  straight  succeeds, 
Another  still,  and  still  another  spreads  ; 
Friend,  kindred,  neighbor,  first  it  will  embrace, 
His  country  next,  and  next  all  human  race." 

My  friends,  be  this  laudable  enterprise  ours.  Against 
the  common  destroyer  let  us  stand  boldly  forth,  in  word 
and  in  work.  It  is  these,  that,  like  the  prophet's  prayer 
and  the  warrior's  valor,  must  achieve  the  victory  together. 
If  there  be  any  here  who  are  disposed  to  look  coldly 
upon  our  object,  as  unattainable,  let  them  ask  themselves 
if  all  the  various  exhortations  of  the  pulpit  are  not 
obnoxious  to  the  same  objection.  We  admit  that  there 
will  ever  be  drunkards ;  but  if,  because  we  may  not  hope 
to  keep  all  men  temperate,  we  must  not  therefore  strive 
to  preserve  any,  then  no  longer  let  the  temples  of  the 
Most  High  echo  to  the  voices  of  his  servants  —  close  up 
the  doors  of  the  sacred  desk,  for  there  are  those  who 
would  slumber  in  their  sins  beneath,  though  an  arch 
angel  should  denounce  them.  All  human  efforts,  how 
ever  praiseworthy,  must  be  marked  by  imperfection.  It 
is  the  badge  of  earth,  and  of  everything  earthly.  It  is 


204  ON    INTEMPERANCE. 

hung  round  the  neck  of  man  before  his  first  repose  on  his 
mother's  lap,  and  it  must  remain  there  till  his  last  sleep 
on  the  lap  of  the  common  mother  of  all.  We  cannot 
entirely  get  rid  of  drunkenness  —  but  we  can  make  it  so 
rare  a  crime,  that  the  guilty  ones  shall  stand  out,  like 
dark  pillars  on  the  road  of  life,  to  remind  the  innocent 
how  far,  how  very  far,  they  have  left  them  behind. 

To  you,  whose  call  I  have  obeyed  in  coming  hither,  I 
say  —  Go  on,  as  you  have  begun.  The  health  and  hap 
piness  of  individuals,  the  comfort  of  families,  and  the 
welfare  of  society,  call  upon  you.  The  fiery  serpents  of 
intemperance  are  abroad  in  the  land  —  let  your  example 
be  the  symbol  of  healing,  to  which  the  afflicted  may  look 
up  and  live.  What  ye  say  and  do,  others  will  imitate. 
They  are  now  imitating  you.  Already  there  is  a  rus 
tling  among  the  leaves  of  the  forest,  and  it  foretells  the 
rising  wind,  that  shall  come  in  its  purity,  to  cleanse  the 
suffocating  atmosphere.  Reformation  is  beginning  in  the 
right  place  —  even  in  public  opinion.  Win  but  that  to 
your  side,  and  it  will  do  more  for  you  than  all  the  laws 
that  slumber  in  the  dust  of  your  public  archives. 

Go  on  —  and  may  the  prayers  of  good  men  accompany 
you,  and  the  blessing  of  Heaven  seal  your  honorable 
labors.  And  when  that  hour,  which  must  come  to  us 
all,  shall  come  to  each  of  you  —  when,  lingering  on  the 


ON   INTEMPERANCE.  205 

confines  of  life  and  death,  the  awed  and  subdued  spirit 
looks  back  to  the  scenes  that  have  long  faded  in  the  dis 
tance —  when  the  hollow  applause  of  the  world  dies 
away  from  the  ear,  and  nothing  rises  up  but  the  recollec 
tion  of  good  and  evil  deeds  —  when  the  weedy  garlands 
of  ambition  have  no  freshness  for  the  burning  brow,  no 
perfume  for  the  fainting  soul  —  in  that  hour,  if  you  can 
remember  one  fellow-traveller  turned  from  destruction  by 
your  influence  —  the  image  of  that  one  shall  hover  round 
your  pillow  of  suffering,  and  be  to  you  a  ministering 
seraph. 


S  prague.  C* 

.arles 

1850 

Poet  10  a. 
_jffritingjL 

.  and  prose 

. 

x—  —  - 

/ 

M1G4438 


953 


I&5O 


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